Beautiful Disaster
by Lex Munro
Summary: Dark Avengers. Daken and his pet sociopath, and a series of accidents that turn them into heroes by the year 2020. Crosses over with my Nightmares/End of Dreaming stories. Daken/Lester. Warning: AU, language, slash, light D/s, sexual content, violence.
1. With Blood on Our Knees

this chapter is 100% Merianmoriarty's fault. she wanted to see a couple of specific D/L moments: when Lester realized Daken had won his little mind game, and when they offed Osborn.

another rush job, so let me know if something's mangled or misspelled.

**warnings:** fluff if you squint (and if you think of D/L as being capable of fluff). slash. mention of mental illness and use of controlled substances. mind games. violence. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). language: r (for s**t, f**k, and f*g).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

**timeline:** 2011-ish. let's call it a year after Norman gets booted out of power. assume Daken went on his fun little side trip of "hey, look, I'm a good guy! PSYCH!" and promptly vanished again.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) the title of the fic (as well as the two chapter titles) comes from the song "Kick-Ass" by Mika. i recommend checking out the lyrics. not necessarily Shakespeare, but decent. 2) affogato is a dessert-ish thing - a scoop of ice cream (or something similar like gelato) with coffee or tea poured over it. 3) "congratu-fucking-lations" is one of moriarty's sarcastic swears. 4) the stomach, appendix, and sigmoid colon are three of the most painful organs to have punctured. i hear the gall-bladder's pretty unpleasant, too.

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><p><strong>With Blood on Our Knees<strong>

**.1. No Bridge to Burn**

Daken scanned the newspaper headlines and took a dainty sip of his affogato.

"Anything else? At all?" asked the waitress, who was perhaps a tad too enamoured of him (she'd been scuttling back to him after every other table, and was starting to get quite annoying).

"Some time alone with my newspaper, I think," he said pointedly, but with a charming grin.

"Oh!" she flustered, waving her hands. "Yes, of course!"

When she'd moved on, he rolled his eyes. Honestly, Italian girls these days were getting as clinging and solicitous as Japanese girls.

It spoke very highly of Lester's skills that Daken didn't notice the other assassin's presence until a chair scraped away from the table.

"Lookin' good for a guy Romulus said was dead," Lester snorted.

Daken raised his eyebrows, but didn't look away from his paper. "He, of all people, should know how hard it is to kill our kind. What kept you, darling?"

"Told you, I thought you were _dead_. What was I s'posed to think, when you fuckin' vanished into the mists after Osborn got knocked off his pedestal? Last anybody'd heard, you and your freak father went to settle a score with Romulus, you changed sides a few times, died a few times, and vanished again. Now, Wolverine doesn't much like me on the best of days, so I didn't ask him, but Romulus has some respect for my professional reputation—_he_ said you were dead, and when the Caveman King of Ninja-Assassins pronounces somebody dead, people tend to take his word for it."

Idly, Daken smirked and turned a page. "And whyever should you want to know where I'd gone, precious?"

He heard the stutter of hesitant breath, words half-formed and discarded. "Yeah, well…I go black market, so I can't always score all my meds at once, and you said _you_ could. I think your exact words were, 'I can get you anything you want.' Anyway, we haven't killed Osborn yet."

Finally, Daken folded his newspaper, set it aside, and looked at Lester.

He didn't look much the worse for wear, considering that he'd probably been between employers since Osborn's fall nearly a year previous (he never seemed to spend any of his pay, so he probably had a tidy emergency fund). His taste in clothes still ran toward bland and careworn. His scarred, nimble fingers were as beautiful as ever (instruments of death, of which Daken considered himself a connoisseur).

And he'd sought Daken of his own volition.

Daken smiled. "So we haven't," he agreed.

There, the patter of speeding heartbeat. There, the uneven draw of breath. There, the scent of relief and simple happiness, like a dog being praised.

Yes, Lester was coming along _nicely_, and Daken hadn't needed to do so much as lift a finger for more than a year.

_They do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder._

Lester concealed his levity with a bored sneer and leaned his chair back on two legs.

"Are you hungry, sweetness?" Daken asked, casually leaning forward and drawing invisible designs over Lester's knuckles with his fingertips. "They do an excellent lobster penne here. Or there's the strawberry gelato, if you're in the mood for something light."

Lester's chair clanked solidly back onto all four legs. "That's it?" he demanded, wary and perhaps a bit offended. "That's all you have to fuckin' say for yourself? Just 'oh, you've found me, no, we haven't killed Osborn, hey, you wanna grab some lunch?'"

And now, a turning point in the game…Daken staked everything on the hope that his pet project was as far along as he thought it was. He simply raised his brows again. "Were you worried I really _was_ dead?"

"Who the fuck would worry about a bitchy little fag with a daddy-complex the size of Switzerland?" Lester snapped, but didn't move his hand from under Daken's fingers.

"Who indeed," Daken retorted with a frown, and withdrew his touch.

Lester flinched, hand twitching forward a millimeter. He smelled of disappointment and shame.

_Perfect._

"Well, I mean…" Lester floundered.

"I suppose you would have preferred to find out Romulus was right," Daken pressed, frown still in place. "Then you could kill Norman yourself and spend the rest of your days drifting, all alone without a care in the world."

"W-well, _no_, I mean…"

"Or perhaps you would have liked to find out I'd gone off on some foolish crusade to kill Norman without you, and he and his mountains of technology had finally done what you couldn't, and then you could go off to find the next man on your list to wipe off the face of the planet."

"No!" Lester just sat there and glowered with hunched shoulders and wide eyes, oozing _hurt_ and _anger_ out of every pore.

Internally, Daken was roaring with triumphant laughter. Externally, he dropped his frown for a neutral expression. "No? And why is that, I wonder?"

"Because you said—" Lester began, but broke off in sudden confusion.

Daken waited patiently.

Slowly, Lester smoothed a hand over his face and began to laugh.

"Is something funny, my dear?"

Lester gestured inarticulately to Daken until he managed to get his mirth under control. "You win. Congratu-fucking-lations, you magical fairy princess _bitch_. For some stupid reason, fucking Stockholm syndrome or _whatever_, I can't stand the thought of you running off and getting your spoiled ass killed. All because, in one of your weird mindfuck moods, you said that I belong to you."

Daken allowed the edge of his smile to show.

"God, how fucking pathetic is that?" snickered Lester. "Oh, I hate you so goddamn much. One of these days…I swear to Christ, I'm gonna fuckin' _kill_ you until you _stay_ dead one of these days. Order me something to eat. And go back to doing that hand thing. I liked that."

_Of course you did. That's why I did it._

So, firm in his victory, Daken went back to tracing patterns in the scars on Lester's knuckles. "Is that the only thing I do to you that you like?"

"I know you," grunted Lester. "If I mention something else, you'll take it as permission to make out in public."

"No one will mind."

"Most people don't mind a lot o' the weird shit you do, thanks to your pixie dust or whatever the fuck. I'm not the right kind of exhibitionist to want your tongue down my throat while the whole street stares."

Daken fluttered his eyelashes. "So if I climbed over this table right now, you wouldn't let me kiss you?"

"Hell, no!" Lester squawked, cheeks going the tiniest bit red.

_Liar._

It was tempting to keep teasing, but the vulture-like waitress had noticed fresh meat and circled back.

"Hello again, sir," she said, still as sickeningly ingratiating as ever. "Would your guest like anything? A coffee, perhaps? Another affogato?"

"Two orders of the lobster penne, and a lemonade. And you should probably stop making those silly faces at me before you annoy my boyfriend."

Needless to say, she scampered off.

"We got a plan for Osborn?" Lester asked, watching her go.

"I have a plan for _everything_, my dear."

And that was how Daken got a collar on his mad dog.

**.2. On a Silver Platter**

The key to trapping Norman Osborn (or any true paranoid narcissist) was to let him come to the trap instead of trying to bring the trap to him. Between them, Daken and Lester had connections in most of the underworld, so shadowing Osborn was simply a matter of paying different people so that Osborn didn't start to see familiar faces (except in his strange delusions). Fortunately, the man's obsessive tendencies and enormous ego made patterns show up in his (ludicrously) extensive efforts to throw off pursuit.

After all the suffering, annoyance, and indignity of serving on Osborn's Avengers roster, Daken was distinctly unsatisfied with how quickly they went from square one to springing the trap.

Thirty-six days after Lester found him in Rome, they were waiting in darkness thousands of miles away, one at the mouth of an alley and the other high above. Daken had long ago mastered the art of disappearing, of becoming a shadow among shadows, silent and scentless and still as the wall against which he leaned.

He smiled when he heard the telltale sound of furtive footsteps on asphalt. A person's stride was as individual as his fingerprints, after all, and Daken had a long and unforgiving memory for the identifying characteristics of people he loathed.

A moment later, the footsteps were curtailed by a hiss of flying steel, the wet thud of impact, and a strangled cry of indignation.

"Oh, look at that!" Lester cackled from the rooftops. "We got a bleeder, baby!"

The footsteps sped, so Daken took his cue to step out and block the alley.

"Hello, Norman," he called jovially, using his claws to clip the tendons in Osborn's elbows (just in case).

There was a choked cry, and Osborn stumbled back a step.

It was a little disappointing that Lester had picked paralyzing targets on each shoulder; Daken would have preferred the ability to inflict more pain. Still, the last thing they wanted was for Osborn to get away again.

"Y-you! You traitorous, ungrateful—"

Lester interrupted him by leaping from the roof and landing on him, bearing him to the ground with ease. "What? What was that? Gotta speak up, Osborn. I'm only a _second-rate_ merc, after all. Y'know, the only thing that would make this sweeter would be if we had Wilson around so he could _annoy_ you to death."

"You were nothing!" spat Osborn, kicking and trying in vain to move his arms. "No one would hire you—you were damaged goods! I plucked you out of the gutter!"

But Lester just danced away from Osborn's flailing feet, snatched two more throwing knives from the holster on his waist, bounced them off a wall and into Osborn's spine with elegant precision. "I was fixed up good as new," Lester retorted. "Sorta. Good _enough_, anyhow. Kingpin woulda hired me."

"A shame we can't do something fun like cut off his fingers," sighed Daken.

"We _can_," Lester argued. "He just won't feel it. Which would be boring."

"The opposite of fun," Daken said flatly.

Lester ignored him. "I got enough knives left to point out some of the more painful organs for him. If I thought he gave two shits about anyone but himself, this is the point where I'd let him know I planned to hunt 'em down. Them and their housekeepers and their mailmen and their fuckin' _dogs_."

"You can't do this to me!" Osborn shrieked.

The sadistic smile on Lester's face was a truly beautiful thing, and Daken found himself simply standing back to watch as the marksman dropped onto Osborn blade-first (and their former employer let out a blood-curdling scream).

"That's your stomach," Lester purred. "Now you're leaking acid onto the rest of your internal organs."

Osborn only gurgled. His eyes were rolling with pain and fear. He looked like a wounded animal being toyed with by a predator. It gave Daken warm and fuzzy feelings.

"What d'you think, babe?" Lester asked, drawing another knife. "Sigmoid colon next? Or appendix?"

"Does he _have_ an appendix?"

"Let's find out…" A stab, a frown. "…damn, looks like he doesn't. Colon it is, then."

Shock was setting in. Wild, glassy eyes. Blood that looked black in the dim night. Cries of terror muffled by more blood. In the moment of his death, the great Norman Osborn was a pathetic sight—just another lame beast being put down.

"Ah, he's going already," tsked Lester. "I still got one more knife, too. Well, waste not…" And he shoved the last knife down that mouth that had spewed such unending nonsense and deprecation.

Over all too quickly, as Daken had known it would be. He flexed his hands, let his claws slide back into his knuckles.

Lester stood and dusted off his palms. "That was fun while it lasted."

"It was," Daken conceded.

Their eyes met—Lester looked a little surprised. "We're free. I mean, _seriously_. I dunno about you, but he was the last guy who really had any dirt on me."

Daken shrugged. "Romulus thinks I'm dead. Even if he learns otherwise, he prefers me alive and killing."

"Wow," mumbled Lester. "We really are. Free."

"Let's keep it that way, shall we?" suggested Daken. He took Lester's hand. "Let's make a promise to never rely on anyone but each other from now on."

Lester didn't even hesitate; he just nodded. "Yeah. Promise."

_That's right—anything I say. Oh, how the mighty have fallen._

Another smile twisted Daken's lips.

After several seconds of silence, Lester looked around the alley. "So…what d'ya wanna do now?"

A good question.

Daken regarded the clouded sky. "Hm. Tropical cruise?"

"I'm down for that. Maui's nice this time of year. And then maybe we can work on that list of 'people I wanna wipe off the face of the planet.' I think Murdock just graduated to the top."

"Excellent."

_After all, every time I help you kill one of them, you'll be that much more willing to help me get what I want. _Whatever_ I want._

And that was how Daken started making plans to rule the world.

**.End.**


	2. Butterfly Without a Care

this was written in response to MerianMoriarty's prodding that Lester would _so_ not have left Daken alone about the scars without a pretty damn big spanking (metaphorically speaking). so i give you a scene from the tropical cruise.

**warnings:** **SEMI-GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT**. Daken's bitchy little issues. **slash**. use of controlled substances. mind games, dom/sub. violence. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). language: r (s**t, f**k, c**k).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

**timeline:** 2011-ish. about a week after the end of With Blood on Our Knees.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) the title of the chapter (and the fic) comes from the 311 song "Beautiful Disaster." it's a strange, strange song, but i love rocking its bass in Guitar Hero. 2) so, if it wasn't Romulus...who was it? XD yes, i'd read the end of that arc before i wrote With Blood on Our Knees. 3) "CCTV" = "closed circuit television." cruise ships, like expensive hotels, have their own TV channels that play event schedules, ads for recreational activities, ads for the restaurants, etc. the last time i went on a cruise, they only had, like, two ship channels, three broadcast networks, HBO, and a couple of pay-per-views. 4) should we have a poll to see what Daken's reading? is it A: Dean Koontz or B: Stephanie Meyer? *rofl* 5) it's hard to say whether Daken would be done healing a year later. the incisions left scars, after all, and that only really happens when there's carbonadium in the picture (which begs the question—did Logan use Muramasa to hack Daken open? D= i guess it's just as likely that the Muramasa claws had been in proximity long enough to irradiate the areas and just generally slow all healing there). it's possible that the bone and tissues would grow back at vastly different rates, too. *jedi mind trick* you don't need to see his identification, these aren't the claws you're looking for. 6) Daken probably analyzes everything even when he's having sex. he's that kind of calculating bastard. and pheromones are _so_ cheating.

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><p><strong>Butterfly (Without a Care)<strong>

"So…lemme get this straight, now…the guy I talked to wasn't Romulus?"

"Did you ever see him face-to-face?"

Without shifting from his position lounging against the pillows, Lester snorts and lazily flips through the channels on the cruise ship's CCTV. "Not sure I get the logic behind having four swimming pools, a hot tub, and a giant-ass waterslide on a tropical cruise-liner," he says, lingering on an energetic advertisement for the ship's various recreational facilities. Apparently, he has dismissed the subject of Romulus. Just as well, since Daken has no intention of telling him the truth. "I mean, they got the damn ocean right there, and salt water smells a hell of a lot better than that chlorinated crap."

"That's because chlorine is a poison, sweetness," Daken drawls. He's reading some vapid best-seller from the ship's gift shop, holding the paperback in one hand while he doodles nonsense patterns on Lester's knee with the other.

"Fuckin' smartass."

"Mm. Perhaps we should visit one of the pools tomorrow, see if the scenery is worth the smell."

"Eh, only if the chicks with big tits outnumber the fatass old white guys. Otherwise, might as well stay in and amuse ourselves in the usual ways. Ooh, showgirls…"

On the television, some sequin-suited Dean Martin look-alike is singing lounge act tunes with a gaggle of scantily clad cabaret girls dancing behind him. This, apparently, constitutes one of the cruise's spotlight evening entertainment events.

A beep of Lester's watch from his bag distracts him from the leggy dancers; he leans over to retrieve his pills, which he chases with the last of the amber liquid in his glass.

"Shouldn't take those with alcohol," Daken remarks.

"Fuck you, princess, I'll take 'em with whatever I want." On the television, the Dean Martin guy starts up a stirring rendition of 'It's Not Unusual.'

"Of course you will."

"You ever gonna tell me how you _got_ those?" Lester asks in a bored tone, crunching down a bourbon-soaked ice cube.

Daken knows exactly what Lester's talking about, hates the memory, decides to ignore the question. Instead, he turns a page of his book and moves his affectionate touches from Lester's knee to his thigh.

"Don't go tryin' to change the subject," Lester grunts, but spreads his legs a bit to accommodate questing fingers sliding up the seam of his pants (lightweight and drawstring, delightfully easy access).

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Lester," Daken says.

"Look, _Akihiro_, if we're gonna do this 'only rely on each other' thing, we're gonna need some trust between us."

The name annoys him, draws up memories of a woman who hated him. He supposes it's only fair, since Lester probably gets the same feelings of remembered loathing at the sound of his own name.

"Trust requires at least a _little_ truth," Lester presses, and grabs Daken's wrist as he reaches for the tented crotch of Lester's pants.

The grip feels tight on the still-healing flesh and regrowing bone (he can feel that three of the fingers are plated), and Lester's thumb hits along part of the incision.

There was something visceral and unpleasant…something _violating_…about waking up to find himself cut open, things—_parts of himself_—missing. He hadn't felt that way since he'd been very young, and he has never liked the feeling. Every time something touches the raw and slowly-mending wounds, he feels that old helplessness, and the animal in him snaps its jaws.

He snarls and lashes out, blinded for the moment by memory and instinct.

Lester's outcry is one of shock more than pain. Only partly trained as Daken's pet, he nevertheless has the good sense to tip his chin up and lay motionless while Daken pins him to the bed. He smells confused and afraid and wounded.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lester gulps. "Please. Please, I'm sorry."

Slowly, Daken banishes the persistent, lingering ache and the feral urge for self-defense. He looks down to see that he has clawed through Lester's right forearm, between the bones, has it trapped against blood-soaked sheets. The wounds are deep and wide, showing purple muscle and a secretive glint of metal quickly hidden by dark red blood.

_Fragile and colorful. Like a butterfly under glass…_

He doesn't think he hit the tendons—just in case, he is gentle when he pulls his claws free.

He has damaged Lester's ability to throw, his ability to fight. For at least a few days, Lester will be vulnerable.

_Pretty, broken butterfly…_

In the past, it would have been cause for celebration.

Now, however, with Lester already eating eagerly out of his hands, it is a costly misstep.

In Lester's eyes, where once there might have been anger and defiance, he can only find sorrow and betrayal—like a loyal dog.

"Look what you made me do," Daken murmurs, getting up and retrieving the first aid kit from the en suite bathroom. The gauze and bandages will barely suffice, but he doesn't feel like explaining the strange injuries to a doctor, and Lester's 'modifications' should have the bleeding stopped soon.

Lester remains listless and obedient while Daken tends the wound.

"Someday," he promises. "I'll tell you someday, my sweet. For now, be careful where and how you touch—next time, my claws may go through something a little harder to fix than your arm."

"Sorry," Lester whispers again, and slips away to the far edge of the bed as soon as Daken has tied off the bandage. He lies on his left side, back exposed, curled slightly around his injured limb.

Daken clenches his jaw, knowing he has to undo some of this damage as soon as possible. Another man might think it wiser to give Lester space, some illusion of safety and privacy and freedom…but Daken wants Lester to be dependent, so any sense of safety must come from his presence—it must seem to Lester that as long as he has Daken, he can be completely carefree.

He puts the first aid kit back and sets his discarded book on the bedside table.

There is tension in the bare muscles of Lester's back, wary and poised for flight; Daken soothes it with a waft of pheromones.

"I'm not angry with you, darling," he purrs, sliding up behind Lester and stroking his hip. "You know I wouldn't intentionally cause you lasting harm. You startled me, that's all." He moves his hand carefully forward, up the muscles of Lester's stomach, feeling them tense and twitch and finally relax.

"Didn't mean to," Lester replies petulantly.

"I know you didn't."

"You really scared me. For a second there…I kinda thought you might actually kill me."

"I wouldn't," he promises, pressing a kiss to the curve of Lester's shoulder. "Not for such a little thing, precious. But I'm sorry for scaring you—let me make it up to you."

Lester squirms toward the edge of the bed. "Oh?" he mutters sourly. "And how the hell do you think you're gonna make that up to me?"

"Oh, sweetness," Daken purrs, gently lifting Lester's hand and leaning down to kiss it. "I think you're forgetting how well I know you…and the things you like."

Lester's eyes are still wary, but he doesn't complain when Daken tugs him away from the edge.

No matter his insistence to the contrary, Lester enjoys being petted, and Daken knows all the best spots to pet him. Grinning, Daken moves downward and takes Lester's left foot in his hands, digging his thumbs in along the arch.

"Nice try, princess," grunts Lester. "You stuck a pair of claws through my damn arm—it'll take a little more than a footrub."

"Will it?" Daken counters smoothly, working his hands up the back of Lester's calf.

Lester scowls. "Yes. It fuckin' hurts, and I _don't like_ being scared. I oughtta rip out one of your claws and stick it through _your_ arm."

Daken nods patiently, hands moving up the back of Lester's thigh. The musky scent of arousal overlays the fading smells of blood and fear, and he can hear Lester's breath quicken. When he reaches Lester's buttock, he gives it a firm squeeze before moving up to Lester's shoulder.

"Fuckin' tease," Lester mutters, but doesn't move.

Daken smirks, massaging Lester's left arm, slowly working his way to one of his pet's few true weaknesses. When he starts rubbing his thumbs against the palm of Lester's hand, he finally earns a low sound of appreciation, and when he massages the fingers one at a time, he's rewarded with a contented moan. Still smirking, he licks the callused pad of Lester's index finger before sucking the digit into his mouth.

"Fuckin' _tease_," Lester hisses again, more vehemently this time.

Daken can feel his lover's racing pulse against his tongue. The air is thick with both their scents, and he knows that his is driving Lester wild. The pale blue of Lester's eyes has been swallowed up by the black of his pupils—his irises are just slender rings of greyish now, occasionally hidden by fluttering blond lashes, and Daken wonders fleetingly how Lester would look if he let his hair grow. He gives up that train of thought in favor of wriggling out of his pants and straddling Lester's hips (he'd like to take Lester again, like he did earlier, but that's not what Lester needs right now).

"You love my teasing," he accuses with a last lick to the center of Lester's palm. He frees Lester's cock with one hand and slides on, leans in for a kiss and ends up needing to brace his weight on his elbows in order to keep riding (because his accursed forearms won't hold him).

Beneath him, Lester writhes and gasps and mewls like _he's_ the one being fucked, left hand clawing bloody furrows down Daken's side, right hand trying to mimic but giving up.

"Ow," Lester grunts.

"Shh," Daken soothes, and kisses him again, hips still moving to a rhythm he knows Lester likes.

"D-didn't think you'd—" Lester tries between pleasured groans. "I mean—w-was expecting you to—"

"To fuck you?" he breathes into Lester's ear. "Did you want me to?"

Lester clings to him, starts to shake his head—

_Liar._

—ends up nodding.

Daken grins. "You would have been too afraid to relax enough," he asserts. "I would've torn you. We don't want that, my dear. It's something special, and I want to keep it pure. When I take you, I want you to always be begging me for more."

Lester whimpers and arches and comes hard.

Really, the ability to control his own pheromones makes sex far too easy for Daken. It's almost cheating.

Daken leans up to look at his pet, watches him blink away the fog of sex, beads of sweat turning his eyelashes dark. "You are _so_ beautiful," he praises, enjoying the high flush of exertion on Lester's cheeks.

"You didn't come," Lester notes with a little frown.

"Would you like me to?" Daken asks.

Lester's left hand moves slowly. "Can…can _I_…?"

_Good boy._

"Of course you can, darling," Daken says generously, and guides that questing hand toward his neglected erection. He watches Lester's eyes, the nervous flit of eyelashes, the indecisive flicker of pupils growing and shrinking. As much pleasure as he takes from the feel of that dangerous hand on him, he takes more from seeing the play of hatred and wonder and disgust and eagerness in those pale eyes. He gives a low moan as his orgasm washes over him, smiles when Lester looks away and licks his hand clean.

He pulls free, rolls to Lester's left—between him and the edge of the bed—and languidly pets the toned muscles along Lester's flank. "Beautiful," he says again, smug and possessive. "My beautiful murderer."

Lester just waves toward the bedside table. "Pass me my glass, I still had a couple ice cubes. And then figure out where the bottle ended up."

"Am I forgiven yet?" asks Daken, reaching for the glass of melting ice.

"Oh, _hell_ no," says Lester. "I just need a little breather before you can go back to 'making it up to me.'"

Daken laughs.

_Flap with all your might, little butterfly…even if you manage to tear a hole in my web, I'll just spin it closed again._

**.End.**


	3. Distil

six weeks after the tropical cruise in **Butterfly (Without a Care)**, Lester gets his final lesson in being an obedient pet. this is the San Francisco incident that keeps Lester in line ever after.

**warnings:** slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). undercurrents of dom/sub. mention of mental illness and controlled substances. veiled reference to violence. Language: r (primetime tv plus s***, f***, and f*g).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

**timeline:** mid 2011 (six weeks after **Butterfly (Without a Care)**).

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) the section titles are stages in distillation - a process by which impurities are removed from a liquid. you boil the liquid, the vapor rises into a crooked apparatus where the pure vapor passes and condenses, leaving the impurities behind. the idea here is one of a metaphorical crucible - that exposing someone to a grueling test will make them better, stronger. 2) i've only stayed at the Hilton SanFran a couple of times, but it's fab. 3) probably one of the creepiest situations to be in is complete displacement. you wake up, and suddenly you don't know where you are, how you got there, where all the people you know have gone... even for a very independent, self-possessed, self-confident person, that could be a really eerie set-up. for someone conditioned into dependence, it would probably be terrifying. 4) as far as i know, Lester doesn't have an official last name (Bullseye has used about a zillion false identities by now, anyway). Graves is just another on the long list of fake names he has waiting for him. 5) i leave it up to you guys to decide how much of the info the concierge supplied was false. 6) "dollars to dimes" is analogous to "ten to one," and you use it when you're talking about a sure bet. 7) lol, don't try to socialize your pets the way Daken does. it only worked because Lester was already turning into a grudgingly codependent bundle of misplaced-aggression issues.

* * *

><p><strong>Distil<strong>

**.1. Evanesce**

Bullseye knows he's been with Daken (in every irritating connotation of the phrase) too long when he wakes up one day and automatically reaches for the other side of the bed.

The sheets are cold. Expensive. Very high-thread cotton.

"Hey, Tinkerbell, you better be fixing me breakfast," he grouses, nettled at waking up alone.

When he doesn't get the expected sarcastic reply, he sits up and looks around.

Looks like a nice suite in…maybe a Hilton.

"Babe?" he tries, but only silence answers.

Someone has laundered his favorite clothes (old jeans and a tagless tee), so he gets out of bed and puts them on (waste not, right?).

The view out the window shows San Francisco.

He doesn't remember how he got here. He doesn't remember getting to San Francisco, checking into the hotel, going to sleep in that big expensive bed. It's only distantly worrying, and he stops worrying altogether when he finds his pills (tucked in the usual pocket of his bag) and the mini-bar.

He does a circuit of the place, scoping out exits, cover, firing lines, makeshift projectiles. Still no sign of His Majesty the Queen Bitch.

After that, he sits in front of a blank television for a while, wondering exactly what the fuck's going on. Grabbing the remote and turning on the news doesn't tell him much—only that morning anchors are chipper bitches who ought to be fucking shot, the weather's going to be mild and sunny, and the world is still dazed and confused by the sudden and mysterious death of Norman Osborn.

Bullseye is slightly shocked to learn the date. Apparently, six weeks have passed since their tropical cruise. He gulps the last of the bourbon in the little bottle from the mini-bar and goes to fetch the vodka. The quiet sets his teeth on edge.

A call to the front desk has room service rushing up with breakfast. As an after-thought, he asks the clerk how long his reservation is.

_~There are three days remaining in your week-long reservation, sir.~_

"Who made it?" he asks.

_~The reservation was made in the name of a Mr. Lester Graves, paid by wire from an account under the same name.~_

"Who checked me in?"

There's a politely puzzled silence on the other end of the line. _~You did, sir, I recognize your voice. And I'm quite sure you were alone.~_

And none of it makes sense. Unless this is some weird new game of Daken's, none of it makes any goddamn sense.

_Let's make a promise to never rely on anyone but each other from now on._

Bullseye doesn't think much of someone who would make that kind of promise and then just fucking disappear.

"Did anybody maybe leave a message for me?" he asks, growing increasingly aware of a childish ache in his throat.

_~Let me just check…~_

He tells himself he doesn't care. He doesn't give a shit whether Daken drugged him and dumped him somewhere and wandered back out into the world. Fuck the little fairy princess if he did; no way is Bullseye going to look for him _again_.

_You belong to me._

…okay, so he'll at least eat breakfast first, and he'll definitely let the bitch hear about how fucking obnoxious the whole mess is, and how fucking funny it's _not_.

The bastard probably left some stupid little note, some taunt…'come and get me,' or some shit.

_~No, sir, no messages.~_

Okay.

Okay, no big deal. Just means he's supposed to stay put until the reservation runs out. Wait for Daken to get back, or call, or send a message, or something.

"Thanks," he grunts, annoyed at the stupid panic bubbling up in his gut. He hangs up the phone and eats breakfast.

**.2. Condense**

The first day (as a whole) is easy enough. Bullseye suffers incredible boredom in the idle luxury provided by the hotel.

He toys with the idea of going sightseeing, looking for someone to kill, checking out the neighborhood bars, fleecing people at darts simply because he _can_… In the end, he decides that he's supposed to stay in the hotel. Establishing that much brings some measure of assurance, but stepping even two feet out of the room makes him anxious, so he doesn't even have the option of swimming or lifting weights (or making pretty girls at the pool disappear).

So he watches TV and stares out the windows. He reads every product label, every courtesy note. He even reads the phonebook. He tears pages out of the Bible, folds them into planes, and launches them across the suite, where they crash in a neat little pile (Bullseye folds very good, very _accurate_ paper planes).

After dinner (and his evening meds), he calls the front desk to check for messages again: still nothing.

He leaves the TV on a movie, but he can't focus on it. He doesn't even notice when the next movie starts to play.

At midnight, he turns it off and gets ready for bed. If he had the energy for it, he'd get annoyed with himself for following Daken's stupid fucking rules even when the prissy fag isn't around.

Bullseye is presented with further evidence that he's been with Daken too long when it turns out that he can't sleep.

He finally manages to doze off by hugging a pillow (after swearing at it and punching it), but he tosses and turns all night.

When dawn starts to lighten the sky and he realizes that he's lying wide-awake, hugging a pillow on the wrong side of the bed, he high-tails it to the sitting room in complete self-disgust.

He empties the mini-bar and calls for more alcohol. The booze interacting with his meds makes him lethargic and distinctly carefree.

It's around noon on the second day that he stops being able to pretend he doesn't feel abandoned.

Instead of irritably wondering when the hell Daken's going to get back, he starts to wonder what he did wrong. Half the time, he can't even gauge Daken's moods, let alone what causes them.

He feels pathetic, so he takes it out on the furniture. He flings pillows, kicks chairs, overturns lamps, rips the curtains down.

Since starting on the antipsych drugs that Osborn's docs gave him, Bullseye hasn't had to put up with this familiar old helpless disorientation. He hasn't had to feel _lost_.

"I don't like this," he complains to the world at large.

The wreckage of the room has no sympathy for him when he huddles in front of the television in the falling darkness of evening and can't stop shivering.

When he calls the front desk again, there are still no messages. The clerk reminds him that he only has the room reserved for one more night, and check-out is at noon.

**.3. Precipitate**

Daken smiles at the prim and pretty concierge. "How did he sound?" he asks.

"Like a spoiled little kid," she replies. "The log says his door only opened once, other than to let room service in. He chases off the housekeeping staff with very abusive language."

Daken waves a hand dismissively. "Give them a little gratuity. He can afford it."

She looks at him shrewdly. "Hiro, what exactly are you up to with this Graves guy?"

"Linda, have you ever had a particularly antisocial pet? One that all but refused to be in your presence?" He taps a finger on the counter. "The best way to deal with that is to shut the miserable little beast up in a room for a few days. Make sure he has food, water, a place to sleep, a place to go to the bathroom…but take away his toys and all forms of social interaction."

"I can think of some nasty little cats that would just get meaner," she snorts.

"If the animal gets more antisocial, it's not ready to be a pet. Dollars to dimes, when I walk in there at ten minutes to noon tomorrow, he'll be crying like a baby."

She smirks. "Seems a little cold-hearted, even for you. Is it really that fun to be mean to him?"

He grins darkly. "Oh, my dear, you have _no_ idea," he tells her. "I'll see you tomorrow. Feel free to call if something goes wrong."

Linda raises her perfectly penciled eyebrows. "If something goes wrong? Are you expecting him to set fires or take hostages?" she teases.

Daken laughs and doesn't answer.

He spends the night in the hotel's Imperial Suite (the legal occupant of which is an obscenely wealthy female executive who is more than happy to keep him supplied with the finest champagne in exchange for his usefulness as a decorative object), cheerily imagining the nervous breakdown his pet is undoubtedly experiencing.

In the morning, he shares a sumptuous breakfast with his hostess, who laughingly admires his 'healthy appetite' (he packs away three loaded plates of eggs, sausage, and French toast without slowing) before running off to her conference downstairs.

At exactly a quarter to noon, Daken makes sure he's impeccably dressed and rides the elevator down to Lester's suite. He opens the door (with the spare card Linda gave him when he checked Lester in) and strides nonchalantly into the wreckage of the front room.

"Are you packed, sweetness?" he calls. "Our plane leaves in an hour and a half, and I thought we might have lunch first."

There's a series of thuds (disturbed furniture, Lester tripping over something) from the next room, and Lester stumbles out looking haggard and sleep-deprived (and a bit drunk).

"You're not ready to go at all, precious," Daken exclaims in exaggerated surprise. "It's only ten minutes to check-out, you know."

For a moment, something like rage passes over Lester's face, but it evaporates quickly. In a burst of motion, Lester catches him up in a bruising embrace, hands clutching at his cashmere sweater. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry, I don't know what I did wrong, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_…"

Daken grins. "Didn't you read the note?" he asks, knowing full well that there was no note to read.

"Where were you, where did you go, _where were you_?"

"If you had read the note I left at the beginning of the week, my dear, you would know that I had some…personal issues to attend to. I told you to have fun, and that I would be back today, in time for our flight to Miami."

Lester just grumbles wordlessly against his shoulder and doesn't let go.

Yes, his pet is almost fully trained. Now for the final touch…

Daken lifts his chin to whisper in Lester's ear. "If I ever decide to abandon you," he murmurs darkly, seriously, "you will know _exactly_ why, and you will _never_ find me."

As expected, Lester makes an unhappy little noise and tightens his grip on Daken's sweater.

"Come on, darling," Daken goes on, quite casually. "Get your shoes so we can leave. You want lunch before we go, don't you? Of course you do; airline meals are _dreadful_."

Lester obediently returns to the chaos of the other room and comes back with shoes on and bag in hand. He still looks like a complete mess, especially with the eager 'please tell me what to do' look in his eyes. He'll be back to his grumpy self after a few days of undivided attention, with the subtle but important difference that _now_ he knows and acknowledges who's in charge and how their little arrangement is going to work.

_Make me too angry and it's over._

Daken gives his most charming smile. "That's better. Come along."

And he turns, barely able to keep from laughing when he hears Lester scamper to heel like a loyal dog.

**.End.**


	4. My Drug

Bullseye understands what house-cats do: being a pet is epic win.

**warnings:** slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). undercurrents of dom/sub. mention of mental illness and controlled substances. veiled reference to violence. crack-tastic villain. Language: r (primetime tv plus s***, f***, and c**k).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye), with a dash of Karla/Mac (Moonstone/Venom).

**timeline:** June 2012.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine

**notes:** 1) yes, the title is a reference to the song "Your Love Is My Drug," by Ke$ha. shutup,ilikeit 2) the Marvel universe sure has a plethora of assorted mercs and wannabe-baddies. it was tempting to stick T-Ray in here, just to make fun of him and his twinkly magic sword, but it killed the pacing. 3) i can't be the only one who thinks Wonder Man is a complete tool. die,WonderMan,dieeeeee 4) i have no excuse for Schmooples and her human keeper. i just thought it would be a hilarious segue into **Nightmares** and **End of Dreaming**. so. now you know. 5) wonder if Bullseye would still be so wary of Cable if he knew the big guy didn't have his mind-floaty powers anymore...

* * *

><p><strong>My Drug<strong>

Bullseye knows that he has a predisposition for addiction. Things he likes quickly turn into things he needs (goes _batty_ without).

He likes thrills, excitement, violence, pain (in the right amount and situation).

He likes Twizzlers and Amp (sometimes together, because Twizzlers are conveniently straw-shaped).

He likes his meds (especially the aripiprazole, because he turns into a fucking _space cadet_ without it).

And he likes being Daken's pet. (He's starting to think of the prick as Akihiro lately—he saw it written down forever-ago in Osborn's files, and the kanji for it amused him, attached a human aspect to that egotistical jackass.)

It was annoying at first—having his decisions stolen from under him (his clothes, his meals, his goddamn bedtime), being called a name he associates with all his most miserable memories, losing any semblance of privacy because Daken can _always_ tell where he's gone, what he's doing, what he's thinking.

But after a little adjustment (Daken probably thought of it as 'training his pet'), Bullseye settled into it, just like getting used to the balance of a new knife.

He knows now that pets have got it _made_. Daken provides food, shelter, clothes, meds. Daken protects him (on the rare occasion that he actually needs it). Daken buys him toys, plays with him, takes him for walks. As long as he follows a few rules, Daken will give him _any goddamn thing he whines for_.

Bullseye laughed all afternoon when he figured that out.

Now, a year after getting rid of Osborn, they're sitting in some kind of expensive high-tech conference room while various big-name mercs file in to join them, all because Bullseye said he was bored with waiting for Murdock to show up again (the bouncy little rat-ass vanished after the last time Bullseye almost killed him).

Bullseye recognizes several of the mercs in the room—all with histories of taking jobs that aren't strictly heroic. Tiger-Shark, Taskmaster, the B.A.D. Girls (dorky name, hot chicks), half a dozen former Thunderbolts. Thieves, assassins, bodyguards. He spends five minutes idly deciding how he'd go about killing each and every one of them.

He's starting to feel impatient, but that's probably what their prospective client wants. Anybody who'd live in an evil lair on a volcanic island would probably love to see them get pissed off enough to start brawling among themselves. Weed out the weaklings without having to bother with subjective things like reputation. Hell, the guy might even be planning to force the contenders into a single-elimination duel-to-the-death tournament—that's the kinda shit people who dress their henchmen in black suits and bowler hats _do_, after all.

Half the men in the room start cat-calling and making lewd comments—a glint of white and gold draws Bullseye's attention as Karla settles primly into a chair across the big conference table from him. She smiles (and _damn_, the girl can smile).

"Long time, no see, handsome," she says.

"Way too long," he agrees with a smirk. "Where's Mac?"

"Around," she dismisses with a shrug.

Some nameless upstart leans over Karla with a charming smile. "Wow, it's _Moonstone_, right?" he says, and Bullseye is reminded of every effortlessly popular asshole he's always hated (like _Wonder Man_, ugh, gotta off that tool soon). "Then it's official: the quality has arrived."

"Glad you think so," Karla replies with an unimpressed roll of her eyes.

"Really, now, what's such a fine example of womanhood doing in a place like this? We could get outta here, you know…go grab some drinks and get better acquainted."

The blonde laughs. "Back off before my pet eats you."

Bullseye can't help but smile when Mac slithers down from the ceiling like liquid shadow and snaps huge fangs inches from the guy's face. "You heard the lady," Mac growls, looming in a shifting nightmare-shape like some demented cross between a slime monster and the Cheshire cat. "_Ssssscram_."

Karla's admirer retreats with impressive speed.

"Holy shit, what's wrong with your wrists?" Karla yelps, leaning over the table.

Bullseye suffers a moment of confusion until Daken leans back and crosses his arms.

"Nothing is wrong with my wrists, Karla," Daken says in that dangerous tone that means further questions will be met with violence.

She huffs and plops back into her chair. "Jesus Christ. You see a guy for the first time in two years, show a little concern, and he gets all snippy. What the hell did I miss, Bullseye?"

Bullseye grunts and says, "Leave me outta this. He won't even tell _me_ what happened. Anybody else find it rude that our host ain't even left us a cooler of water? I'm thirsty. I'll give him five more minutes before I book it for the nearest mini-bar."

"Who the hell _is_ the client, anyway?" Karla asks. "All my fixer had was a meet location. I figured I could use a little excitement, and Mac would handle any riffraff."

The half-formed black mass resolves itself into the hulking shape of Venom, eyes reddish and twinkling, jagged fangs forming a smile. "Tasssstes like chicken," he snickers.

Bullseye gestures to the conference room as a whole. "Some guy new to the gig. Thinks James Bond tropes are impressive in a supervillain. Probably monologues and cackles and pets a white cat."

"Sounds like my last three bosses," Karla mutters. "What are you two doing here? I thought you didn't take 'unspecified high-pay contracts.'"

He shrugs. "I was curious why somebody'd offer that much green to come out to the middle of the Pacific for a weekend. Seemed a bit Bruce Lee, so I was hoping for conspiracies, espionage, and murder. Well, I'm _always_ hoping for murder…"

A door opens, and all the room's conversations taper off. Two big bodyguards escort a freckle-faced little blonde girl to the head of the table, where she sits in an enormous chair.

One of the big guys passes her a fat white cat, and it's the last straw: Bullseye starts laughing.

"If Mithter Bulltheye will pleathe control hith outburtht of inappropriate mirth," the girl says crisply, disdainfully (the lisp makes him laugh harder), "I will enlighten you all ath to the nature of your potential contractual employment."

"Sorry, sorry," he says, clearing his throat and biting his lip. He wants to ask her to say 'suffering succotash,' but she probably wouldn't get the joke. "Go on."

The girl strokes the huge cat. "Schmoopleth requireth appeathement."

The cat's name is Schmooples. What. The. Fuck.

Bullseye sputters on the edge of hysteria. "Of _course_ he does."

"She," the girl corrects with an annoyed furrow of her eyebrows. "And she hath demanded a very particular object—a crythtal thphere, approxthimately three incheth in diameter, made of an unidentifiable photoreactive thubthtanthe. It currently rethideth on the island of Manhattan, in New York Thity, New York. The firtht one of you to retrieve the object and return it here will retheive two-hundred million dollarth in thmall, unmarked, non-thequential billth, no quethtionth athked."

"By 'no questions asked,' you mean we can kill anybody that gets in our way, right?" asks someone in the crowd.

"Yeth," the little girl says. "The liveth of inferior organithmth do not conthern Schmoopleth. Only the object conthernth Schmoopleth."

"There's a catch," Tiger Shark sneers. "There's always a catch. We'll get there and find out that Hulk thinks it's a unicorn egg and he's trying to hatch it, or some shit."

"That'th prepothterouth," snorts the girl, and the fat white cat hisses. "Unicorn eggth are _white_, you imbethile. The object ith perfectly tranthparent, though it luminetheth when exthpothed to thertain high-frequenthy vibrationth thuch ath light."

Bullseye bites down on his knuckle to stifle his laughter. Clearly, Daken put something really good in his meds when he wasn't looking. It's the only explanation for the girl and the cat and…and _everything_. Any minute now, some seven-foot-tall guy with metal teeth is going to show up.

Karla has a thoughtful frown on her face. She jabs a finger onto the table. "Why cast such a wide net with such big bait? What the hell is guarding this thing?"

The question seems to vex the little girl. "At any given moment, the object may be thurrounded by theveral powerful mutantth or meta-humanth."

"Whoa, lady, I don't do muties," calls somebody else in the crowd. "Racial kinship thing."

"You know where the door ith," says the girl, making shooing motions.

"Where is this 'object,' that it's got that kinda security?" Diamondback demands. "Friggin' Avengers Tower or something?"

"Schmoopleth requireth the remote!" the little girl barks, and one of her guards hands her a remote. At the press of a button (from the cat, in fact, and Bullseye nearly falls out of his chair), a holographic projection of Manhattan springs to life in the middle of the table, dotted with red in places. "The peculiar energy thignature of the object hath traveled around the island, but it conthentrateth where the red dotth are denthetht."

One of the seedier apartment districts.

Taskmaster abruptly stands and leaves.

Bullseye frowns, eyes the map a little longer, and then understands what Taskmaster must have seen. "Well, I'm out."

Daken arches an eyebrow, and everyone else in the room stares.

Bullseye points to the map. "That's Deadpool's place. Dealing with him and that Cable jackass and all their happy-fun-time pals on his home turf is _not_ worth two-hundred million."

The little girl frowns darkly. "Your athertion dithpleatheth Schmoopleth."

"Schmooples can go lick her ass," Bullseye scoffs. "I wouldn't put up with that kinda shit for a diamond the size of my cock, let alone fucking _two-hundred mil_. Fuckin' insulting. To us _and_ Deadpool."

When he pushes away from the table and stands, Karla and Daken do the same.

"Interesting," Karla comments as they walk down the hall. "I thought you _wanted_ to kill Deadpool."

"More fun _almost_ killing him," he admits. "And _imagining_ killing him."

And Daken doesn't mention it (never mentions it, hasn't mentioned it in two years), but whatever happened while he was playing with Romulus and Wolverine _fucked him up_.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to notice things like the way Daken is still so careful about how he moves his arms and how much he carries. It's been two years, so whatever made the scars would have healed even on a normal human—but healed injuries can still hurt if they heal wrong, and a _scraped knee_ can bug the hell out of a guy years later if he got it because of someone he hates.

Bullseye isn't going to risk getting them into a fight they might not be able to handle, not just to cure his boredom.

"You know most of the idiots in there will think to themselves, pretty justifiably, 'oh, I've heard of this Deadpool guy, he's a total retard,'" Karla points out.

"Wilson is a tough fight," Bullseye admits grudgingly. "Depending on how well his brain's working that day. But since Cable got back from wherever-the-fuck he went, they've been fuckin' _attached at the hip_. I don't like the odds against a seven-foot-tall guy whose left side is made of metal and whose childhood was spent not getting annihilated by Apocalypse. Guy's fuckin' scary. Almost _Bob_-scary, but a different kind of insane."

"So what are you gonna do?"

Bullseye grins. "I was thinking of going to hang out around Wilson's place to watch the fireworks. I figure a dozen dumbasses with dollar-signs in their eyes trying to get Wilson on his home turf now that he's practically tripping over X-Geeks…that's gotta have a few laughs in it, right?"

"I wanna know what that thing does, that she wants it so bad," Karla says. "'Unidentifiable material' is a pretty promising phrase, in my experience."

"What if we waited until they dissstracted him and then _we_ sssstole it?" Mac suggests.

"Now you're thinkin', Mac," Bullseye praises. "And if the opportunity never presents itself, big whoop. We just sit back with our popcorn and enjoy the show. Maybe somebody on my list will pop up to 'save the day,' and we'll get the added entertainment of ripping somebody's intestines out."

**.End.**/


	5. Waiting Game

the stakeout.

**warnings:** slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). undercurrents of dom/sub. gambling, mild violence. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s***, g**damn, and f***).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye), with a dash of Karla/Mac (Moonstone/Venom).

**timeline:** June 2012.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) you know Lester and Mac have been betting on how each wannabe-merc goes down. with imaginative people like Wade and Inez involved, their bets probably get ridiculously elaborate. 2) yes, Daken keeps a mental list of Useless Things Mac Will Eat. someday, i'll write it down for you guys. 3) 'Energizer Bunny on meth' is a great description of Deadpool. sadly, i didn't come up with it, and i'm not sure anymore who did.

* * *

><p><strong>Waiting Game<strong>

Daken watches another B-list merc get flung into a brick wall by the blonde with the fake tits (they're pretty enough, he supposes, but they _are_ fake). She keeps walking toward Deadpool's place. Beside him, Lester mutters a string of profanities and hands Mac a wad of cash.

"The _hell_ was that shit? She never throws them over the left shoulder!"

This has become their daily routine. Lester gets up bright and early, waiting impatiently at the door of their hotel room like a dog eager for his walk, and they set out for the roof across the street from Deadpool's apartment. Sometimes, Karla and Mac are there, too. They settle down and wait and watch as the stream of money-hungry morons tries again and again to take Deadpool on. Several of the most recent ones have tried taking the blonde girl hostage. Clearly, they haven't heard that she punches hard enough to knock out a Texas longhorn.

"We should just kill the chick downstairs and take her apartment," Karla grumbles.

"Open air's got better range of visibility than a window," Lester tells her. "And her place smells like mothballs and cats."

"Mothballs are deliciousss," chirps Mac.

They all take a moment to stare at him, and he (literally) shrinks under their gaze.

"They _are_..." he says petulantly.

Daken mentally adds mothballs to the list of Useless Things Mac Will Eat.

"Nobody'd miss her," Karla goes on. "And she has furniture."

Lester scowls. "So bring a fucking lawn chair. I ain't missing this shit just because you feel a need to be pampered. One of these little scabs gets lucky, I wanna be there to clean up."

Daken arches an eyebrow. Lester is normally extremely patient with Karla's whining (it's always annoyed Daken, purely because he doesn't like Lester showing that degree of fondness for someone else). Nothing smells off...just the usual mixture of dry-cleaning, conditioner, Twizzlers, and meds. He reaches out and rubs his thumb over Lester's knuckles.

Pale eyes dart to him, brows knit in slight confusion. "What?" Lester mumbles. "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing, I suppose."

"My god, it speaks," Karla mutters.

"You _suppose_?" Lester echoes with a frown. "What the fuck? You fucking go mute for a week and start acting weird and you _suppose_ nothing's wrong?"

Ah.

He's been brooding since Karla asked about his scars. Sulking over what happened and what he could've done differently and how he should've found a way to come out on top. He hasn't told Lester about any of it (to his credit, Lester never asked after the first time), and still means not to. Not yet.

"We are not going to have this conversation," he says crisply.

Karla throws her hands in the air. "Ugh, that's my fucking cue to get out of here. I'm not sitting up here without a chair _and_ listening to your fucking girly bitchfest lovers' quarrel. C'mon, Mac, let's get some sushi."

When they've gone, Lester allows his expression to slip. He looks…_hurt_. He smells afraid.

"Was it something I did?" he whispers. "I don't remember breaking any rules."

Daken closes his eyes for a moment. "No, sweetness. You didn't do anything wrong. You've been perfect."

"Then how come you haven't said anything since we got back?"

He smiles and bumps his shoulder against Lester's. "Karla annoyed me into a sulk. I didn't mean for you to think I was punishing you."

Lester seems to understand; his eyes flicker over the broken lines of ink on Daken's left forearm.

"I promised I'd tell you eventually," he admits.

"I know," Lester snorts, and looks away.

"Not today."

"I _know_. Jesus. You think I can't tell when you're fucking bricking me out as hard as you do everybody else? I'd have to be pretty goddamn blind, seein' as it happens every other day."

Daken blinks, stares. But the hurt look on Lester's face is gone, replaced with moody resignation.

Lester grins suddenly. "It's our lucky day. Cable's leaving with 'em this time instead of house-sitting. Let's toss the place, see if we can get an easy two hundred mil and a laugh outta stealing from that fucking sword-swinging Energizer Bunny on meth."

**.End.**


	6. Alive

this was originally two separate fics that i decided could go together. crosses over with **Dreams of the Waking Man** (just before **The Traveler**) and **Blood & Tears** (just after **Leaving Now**.

**warnings:** **SEMI-GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT**. slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). undercurrents of dom/sub. mild violence. language: r (primetime tv plus s***, f***, g**damn, and c**k).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye), with a little cameo of Logan/Wade (Wolverine/Deadpool) and background Nate/Wade (Cable/Deadpool).

**timeline:** June 2012.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) yup, everybody knows the porn is in the sock drawer. 2) as much trouble as Lester has with Wade designations that are derivative of MP616, i'm thinking Wade BT562 would finely dice him without blinking. and he kinda gives off that vibe - that "i could finely dice you without blinking" vibe. or maybe it's just an "i liek swordz! °u°" vibe. 3) and then we wander off into the land of psychological contemplation. i'm not a psych student, i just find abnormal and behavioral psych stuff fascinating to explore.

* * *

><p><strong>Alive<strong>

"Open sesame," Bullseye snickers, slipping the lockpick into his jacket pocket and turning the knob.

"Somewhere in the bedroom, yes?" Aki asks in a bored tone.

"Yeah. You take the closet, I'll take the dresser."

"Certainly. With all the trouble it took to drag you _out_ of the closet, I wouldn't want you to go back _in_."

"Ha-fucking-ha."

The place is much cleaner than it was last time Bullseye was inside, but he chalks that up to the miniature redhead. The contents of the dresser are actually _clean_ and _folded_, which is an extreme oddity for Deadpool (who professes to hate laundry). Bullseye decides to take the risk that Deadpool might have left a booby trap in one of the drawers, starts patting through the contents for any sign of a three-inch glass globe. He finds it in the bottom drawer, between a stack of porno mags and a mess of mated and unmated socks.

"Jackpot, baby," Bullseye says.

As he reaches for the thing, he feels an electric tingle in the air and hears a soft burst of white noise.

"No touchy," someone tells him, and he suddenly has a sword next to his cheek.

Bullseye slowly turns his head to look.

He doesn't recognize the guy standing over him, but he's got a healthy respect for people with metal sticking out of their knuckles (at least when said metal is next to his face).

A flurry of motion from the direction of the closet draws his attention, and a slightly more muscular stranger slams Aki to the ground.

"Aha," says the first stranger, tapping his blade disconcertingly on Bullseye's shoulder. "I know a Bullseye when I see one. Even acknowledging that we just arrived by inter-dimensional transit, leaving your back exposed was a dumb move, rookie."

Bullseye grimaces. "Wilson. Because one of you wasn't bad enough. God must fuckin' _hate_ this world. Or universe, or timeline, or whatever."

There's a little scuffle behind this new Deadpool, and the second stranger grunts. "Save it, kid. I got six metal claws that could cut you right open."

"Spare me," spits Aki. "I see you're just as insufferably paternal in alternate universes. You're not the only one with claws, so don't sound so self-assured, Wolverine."

The guy sighs. "Wade, why can't you drag me anywhere that people _don't_ immediately hate my guts?"

"Can we find a way to not have this sword in my face?" Bullseye interjects.

"You'd prefer it _through_ your face, maybe?" Wilson asks.

"Do it and I'll fucking turn you inside-out," Aki snarls.

"_Aki_," Bullseye hisses, as the blade turns and the edge touches his cheek.

"I'm just fuckin' with ya, rookie," Wilson snickers. "Move the hands away from the drawer. You can throw shit at me if you want, but if you try to grab the crystal ball I _will_ cut you. And the bastard princess over there can throw as many tantrums as he likes; I will bet my blades he can't do any lasting damage to me."

"I dunno, he gets awful determined," Bullseye says casually, mind racing to find some way to come out on top. "Gets it from his annoying furball father. And I really recommend you get off him—his Daddy issues are massive, and anybody named 'Wolverine' is at the top of his shit-list."

Wilson tilts his head. "Jamie, you feeling particularly threatened over there? Or is your satan-spawn son just barking?"

Wolverine snorts. "If I can fight you without ending up dead, I think I can handle some punk kid with a little pent-up anger."

"I'm sixty-six, you condescending idiot," Aki mutters sourly.

"With a nice long life ahead of you," Wilson agrees. "A long life with a headless boyfriend, if he doesn't move that hand away from that Fate Node before I count to three."

Bullseye immediately holds his hands up. "Okay, okay. Jesus. I knew this shit was _so_ not worth two hundred mil."

"Shit," Akihiro says flatly.

When the sword is gone, Bullseye turns properly and understands the reason for Aki's swearing.

Cable is standing in the doorway with a very large plasma rifle in his hands.

"Shit," Bullseye agrees.

"Nate," Wilson says, sounding guilty and surprised. "Uh. Hi. So, funny story, me 'n Jamie just got here from a different dimension and found these two snooping around. You're, uh…not a Nate that's likely to make my brain 'splode, right? I have some really expensive stuff in my skull, and it would be kind of bad if it broke."

Bullseye gestures toward the front door. "We're okay with packing it up and going home. You can sort out this _whatever_ with having a second Wilson around."

"Good idea, Bullseye," Cable grunts. "Get out."

Wolverine lets Aki up—for a second, it looks like Aki might kick the guy in the balls, but he straightens his shirt and swaggers for the door like he owns the place.

Bullseye cautiously edges after him, noting with grudging respect that Cable has correctly determined that the strangers are the big threat and keeps the gun trained on them.

As soon as they step out of the building, Aki grabs him by the elbow and drags him to the nearest alley.

"What the fu—" Bullseye tries to ask, but is interrupted by a harsh kiss. Their teeth knock for a moment, and he tastes blood from a cut lip, but he can't bring himself to care when Aki's tongue slides over his.

"Are you all right?" Aki gasps when he ends the kiss. His eyes are wide, almost fearful, and smooth fingers trace Bullseye's cheek where the second Wilson's blade rested earlier. "Are you all right, precious?"

"What?" Bullseye manages, dazed and breathless from the force of Akihiro's sudden passion. "Yeah, I'm good. Little horny now, but good."

And Aki kisses him again, laughing a little, hands wandering and hips grinding forward. "Good. _Good_. You want to go back to the hotel? Or can we just fuck right here?"

"Baby, you took the words outta my mouth," he huffs, already fumbling at Aki's fly. "I like both. Both sounds good. Turn around."

Another breathless little laugh, and then they're all gasps and groans, moving feverishly up against the dirty brick wall.

It's not enough, not after a sword next to his cheek, so close and sharp that he thought for a while it might cut him if he breathed wrong. It's not enough to make it real, to make him feel alive.

It's enough to last him until they're back in their room.

They collide again, hot kisses and desperate hands, and by unspoken agreement, they end up on the bed as they throw off the last of their clothes.

For exactly three seconds, Bullseye hesitates, like always. Not because he doesn't want to fuck, but because he wants—_needs_—to know if Aki's going to set out any rules. The games they get up to can be fairly elaborate, and Aki is always calling the shots; breaking the rules doesn't lead to the playful pouting of ruined fun, but to the chilly neglect of another lesson in obedience.

Akihiro _always_ calls the shots.

In that three-second pause, Aki is on him again, biting his lips and settling meaningfully between his knees.

It's better that Aki doesn't ask permission, because Bullseye doesn't ever _actually_ know whether he wants it until he's getting it. The sexual equivalent of Schrödinger's cat. Heh. _Schrödinger's cock_. Sounds like a bad snuff film.

"And what's so funny?" Aki asks him while lubing up two fingers.

"Nothin'," he snickers. "Just a goddamn weird train of thought that led to dorky porno titles."

"I see." Briskly, the slicked digits press in.

Bullseye hisses and spreads his legs a little more to let Aki slide his fingers in deeper.

He doesn't know why he likes this so much. It's not that he likes having something up his ass (that's actually really weird and uncomfortable). And it's not a liking for cock, because he doesn't spare much thought for anybody's cock but his own, not like tits—he _loves_ tits, thinks they're one of God's better inventions, right up there with Twizzlers and murder.

Part of it's that little bundle of nerves up inside that makes him come so hard he sees stars. Part of it's the fact that Aki really is drop-dead-gorgeous (not just the way he looks, but the way he talks, the way he moves, the way he _kills_), and he won't admit it aloud but he's never been perfectly straight.

But once Aki's inside him, staring into his eyes and breathing hard and fast against his mouth, he suddenly gets it.

Mostly what he likes about having Aki in him is the uncharacteristic gentleness, the carefully-contained passion. Aki is rough with him, but never enough to really _hurt_—

_When I take you, I want you to always be begging me for more._

—and the whole time, Aki gives him this _look_ like he's the most precious thing in the world.

God.

He feels _loved_, that's what it is.

It's all down to that Freudian bullshit Aki was always spouting Before (yes, it has a capital letter, because the stubborn fairy taking over his life is on a completely different level from anything that happened prior), that crapspew about his dad not loving him enough (and admittedly, it's hard to love your kid enough if you don't know or care that he exists; the occasional drunken slap-around from the step-dad didn't really make up for it), leading him into this weird obsessive thing with guys who show him violence. It's why he hates it when Murdock ignores him. It's why he can't take the idea of Aki just vanishing.

Fucking pathetic.

If it didn't feel so goddamn good, he'd be disgusted.

"Hey," Aki mumbles against his cheek. "Where are you?"

"Inside my head," he answers with unintentional honesty. He covers the slip with a quick follow-up. "Wanna join me? It's pretty fucked up in here."

But Aki kisses his neck with a knowing roll of the hips. "You should join me out here. It's much cozier."

Maybe the Freudian thing is why he likes having Aki on top, no matter who's sticking what where. Maybe he subconsciously likes feeling trapped. Maybe he likes the tickle of anxiety at the thought that Aki could stick those claws through him and he wouldn't be able to get away.

_Look what you made me do…_

Whatever. It's kinda nice, in the way that good sex usually is, but it's not really worth the trip through his headspace. Maybe every once in a while. Maybe a couple times a month, when he's feeling neglected or something.

Akihiro bites his shoulder (just hard enough to get his attention, hard enough for a delicious little sting to linger on the skin). "You know, it's difficult to make decent performance art when one's audience is ignoring the stage. Shall I stop?"

"No!" he says quickly, tightening his grip on Aki's shoulders.

Aki grins his smuggest grin and shifts for better leverage.

The angle mercifully steals Bullseye's ability to think. His world becomes heat and breath and racing heartbeat and _pleasure_, the blur of the ceiling through sweat, the slip of skin and blood under his nails. The overall sensation is close to killing someone he hates—there's probably something vaguely Freudian about _that_, too. When he comes, he feels like his whole being is uncoiling (or unraveling?), and he can only lie there for a long time, tired and relaxed and a little bit sore while Aki makes a trail of bite marks along his collarbone and finishes up.

"No one is allowed to break my toys but me," Akihiro murmurs against his cheek, just as he drifts off to sleep.

**.End.**


	7. Hate Machine

immediately after killing Matt Murdock, D&L settle into an apartment.

**warnings:** slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). minor 616 reference undercurrents of dom/sub. reference to sex. brief descriptions of violence. language: r (primetime tv plus g**damn, f***, and f*g).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

**timeline:** 2013.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) the title comes from the Nine Inch Nails album "Pretty Hate Machine," and the song referred to in the fic is "Head Like a Hole," which is on later releases of that album (but not the original release). Trent Reznor is the mastermind of NIN. 2) ever wonder if that feeling people call "having a goose walk over your grave" is you dying in some alternate dimension?

* * *

><p><strong>Hate Machine<strong>

Many things changed when Matt Murdock died.

Having effectively erased the top ten names on his list, Lester expressed something like a desire to settle down.

Daken was surprised, but took it in stride; after all, they both had more than enough money for it. A nice flat was made conveniently vacant, some nice furnishings replaced the tackier pieces, blackout curtains were set up in the bedroom for Lester (who was not a morning person under the best circumstances). If pressed, he would admit that there was something like comfort attached to the idea of staying somewhere besides a hotel for more than a few days. They could accumulate personal items, things they preferred over whatever happened to be at hand. A comfortable chair (his favorite simple indulgence no matter where he goes). A decent DVR (because Daken hates watching television and Lester hates watching it on somebody else's schedule). A nice stereo with some loud music (Lester likes Nine Inch Nails, because it's profane and has a heavy beat).

"Ever feel like you just dodged the bullet?" Lester asked, lying across the foot of the bed while the sounds of angry American electronica washed over the flat.

"I don't generally bother," Daken replied, playing dumb to get a rise out of his pet.

Lester glared. "I mean…" He gestured expansively. "This weird feeling like you barely got away with it."

"I always get away with it, and always by a healthy margin."

Lester threw a pillow at him.

He hugged the pillow and grinned. "Murdock was _off his fucking rocker_. If you hadn't gotten him, there would've been a long line of goody-goodies waiting to do the job."

Lester just looked at him for a long time. "What d'you think would've happened if I hadn't found you in Rome?"

Daken shrugged. "You would've found me a month later in Vienna."

"_No_. If…if you hadn't _been_ there when I found Murdock the last three times."

Over the unfamiliar scents of the room, Daken could smell black depression. He stood slowly and approached the bed, dragging the pillow by a corner. "I wouldn't have let him hurt you, precious," he promised. His free hand wandered to Lester's hair without asking his brain for permission, but he let it linger there. "You belong to me; you're _mine_. He would never have stood a chance against both of us at once."

"Good," Lester said. "Because I thought he almost had me, a couple of times. And it ain't like it used to be—I don't think he woulda let me go this time. Probably woulda killed me. And I don't like being killed."

Daken finds death to be overrated—both the experience itself and its aftermath. So he only shrugged. Then he noticed the track playing on the stereo and smiled again. "They're playing our theme song."

Lester laughed. "It's about whores and sellouts, not mercenaries."

Daken tossed the pillow back onto the bed. "There's a difference? Don't pretend you don't like the song."

"I like the whole CD, that's why I bought it," Lester retorted.

But the somber mood was gone, and that was good enough for Daken.

So he just sauntered away from the bed and moved his hips to the music, completely unsurprised to be tackled to the floor fifteen seconds later. They fucked on the carpet while Trent Reznor complained about corruption (and then they climbed up onto the bed and went for another round).

The next day, it was like someone had flipped a switch inside Lester's brain.

He had been obedient for a long time already (even if that obedience was often accompanied by complaints or protests), but the death of Daredevil seemed to have drained all the initiative out of him. Before, he would have been out the front door after breakfast, looking for someone to kill. Instead, he was idle…curiously pliant, and…yes, perhaps even _affectionate_.

"We going anywhere today?" Lester asked, crowding close over Daken's shoulder while he sat at the table with a book and a cup of tea.

"Are we?" Daken countered, slightly nonplussed.

"We need to stock the fridge. I don't feel like getting up and going out for every meal."

Daken sipped his tea and returned his attention to his book. "Have fun, then."

Lester didn't move.

"You know how to shop for groceries," Daken pointed out.

Lester still didn't move. He smelled frustrated.

Intrigued, Daken set his book down. "Would you like me to come with you, darling?"

Rough hands slid over his bare shoulders. "You'd have to, wouldn't you?" Lester said in a tone of false confidence (Daken could hear the uncertain thud of heartbeat, could taste an unspoken plea, could feel the fine tremor in fingers that were always steady). "This bout of insanity might wear off—I might run away."

"I certainly wouldn't want _that_," Daken replied.

Those wonderful hands slipped across his chest, settled over his collarbone and his heart. Lester leaned down and pressed his forehead against the crook of Daken's neck.

Smirking in satisfaction, Daken traced swirls and spirals over the back of Lester's right hand. "You know, you could come over to _this_ side and do that."

Lester hummed thoughtfully and drummed out a rhythm with his fingers that vibrated through Daken's heart. "What would I get out of it?"

"You've never yet complained after I kissed you."

So Lester tugged the chair back to make room and slid into Daken's lap, waiting for his promised kiss.

The memory of Lester laughing and covered in Murdock's blood stirred a greedy little thrill of possession in Daken. "My beautiful murderer," he purred as he dragged his thumbs up Lester's inner thighs.

And Lester stared into his eyes, wearing once again that odd, desperate 'please tell me what to do' look he'd worn the day Daken had finished training him. An expectant hush settled between them, punctuated by Lester's nervous breath and racing heartbeat. Blond eyelashes fluttered—

_Butterfly wings…_

—and he leaned close, lingering just shy of a kiss, tense and poised and flawless and _entirely too goddamn demure_.

Daken slammed his hands down on the table and surged forward with a snarl. Lester was left in an awkward sprawl half-on the table with only quick reflexes and a leg over Daken's hip saving him from falling.

Lester didn't even flinch.

"Not bad," Daken said. "But how about showing a little fire, hmm?"

Lester's left hand, which had still been lingering on Daken's chest, crept slowly upward before tangling viciously in Daken's hair. "How about you fuck me into this nice new table before I get bored and use your faggot little teacup to cut your pretty face off and hang it on the wall?"

"That's more like it!" Daken laughed.

**.End.**


	8. The Sitter

shortly after killing Matt Murdock, D&L settled into their apartment. a month later, Karla needs a pet-sitter. (because MerianMoriarty wanted couch-potato!Mac, and this is the best i could do...^_^;)

**warnings:** slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). minor undercurrents of dom/sub. product placement (yeah, yeah, i usually hate it, but the Amp & Twizzlers thing is going to be a running gag). language: r (primetime tv plus s***, f***, and f*g).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

**timeline:** 2013 (a month after **Hate Machine**).

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) Lester is totally a Michael Bam-Splosions fan. 2) like i said, i hate doing dorky shit like mentioning brand-name junkfood, but the Amp and Twizzlers thing will be a running gag. 3) the "sudden permanent disappearing act" comes from Distil. 4) to me, Mac can be summed up as whiny, dependent, and bloodthirsty (just like a five-year-old). 5) i imagine that anybody with a heightened sense of smell would be a somewhat fastidious housekeeper, just because things like food crumbs in the carpet would drive him nuts every time he walked by and smelled them. kind of like a permanent case of "*walks by* *sniffs* wtf is that smell?" 6) just occurred to me not everyone will know what a Tiffany lamp is. the shade is made from leaded-glass cut into art-nouveau designs. real Tiffany glassware was designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany and should bear a crafting mark of either "Favrile" or "LCT." authentic Tiffany Lamps are incredibly snooty, expensive, and hard-to-find.

* * *

><p><strong>The Sitter<strong>

Bullseye chews absently on a Twizzler and waves the remote. "Know what I like about Michael Bay's movies?"

"What's that, darling?" Akihiro asks indulgently, flipping a page in the book he's reading.

"Gratuitous explosions."

No sooner said than done. Something on-screen explodes, and some pretty actress screams.

"So I see," Aki says. He shifts a bit, makes himself more comfortable against Bullseye's shoulder (he fits there just right, warm and smelling like tea and Armani, and the weight of him makes Bullseye languid and drowsy).

On the coffee table, Bullseye's cell phone rings, and he gripes and pauses the DVR.

Aki sits up with a distinctly displeased little frown. "I expect to get my headrest back when your conversation is done."

"Yeah, yeah…" Bullseye snatches up his phone and props his foot on the table. "What?" he growls into the microphone.

_~Am I interrupting something?~_ Karla teases.

"Karla." He unpauses the movie and settles back down. "Nah, just watching a movie. This a social thing, or you need a favor?"

_~I have a gig coming up in Hong Kong, and I need a sitter.~_

"Sitter?" he echoes, nonplussed. He reaches for another Twizzler and gnaws on it while the characters in the movie blow something else up.

Karla sighs on the other end of the line. _~I'm flying commercial, and you know how Mac hates airports. You and the Queen Bitch are on the short list, since you're close and have your own place.~_

"Well, just make sure you send him with his own chew toys, 'cause I'll smack him silly if he chews on any of my shit."

_~Oh, honey, the only thing of yours he'd want to chew on grows back.~_

Akihiro snorts and turns a page. "I am not a _snack tray_, Karla."

She laughs—a pretty, feminine sound that makes a grin tug at Bullseye's lips. _~We'll swing by in a couple of hours.~_

"Gotcha," Bullseye replies, glancing around for his drink and deciding he must have finished it at some point. "Seeya then."

When he hangs up the phone and drops it back onto the coffee table, Aki holds out the half-empty can Bullseye was looking for.

He takes it and leans back again. "Thanks, babe," he says, perhaps a bit grudgingly.

"Why you like energy drinks when you never _go_ anywhere or _do_ anything is beyond me. You aren't having trouble keeping up with me, are you?"

Bullseye bristles slightly (partly at the impugning of his stamina, but mostly because he's annoyed that Aki hasn't gone back to leaning on him). It's not his fault he's a homebody…he'll have to get much more stir-crazy or pissed off to say it point-blank, but Aki should know by now that he doesn't like being away from the stuck-up little fag.

"Well, if _you_ ever _wanted_ to go anywhere or do anything, then maybe I _would_," he snaps. "Shit, I don't bitch when you make me hold the fuckin' shopping bags, do I? I don't drag you off to the seedy pubs where people ask for my autograph and want to hear war stories of my feud with Murdock. I let you order when we eat at fancy restaurants, so that I don't embarrass you by mangling the names. So why don't you ever wanna go anywhere?"

Slowly, Akihiro slides close again, fits himself against Bullseye's side and turns another page in his book.

And Bullseye curls an arm around his obnoxious lover, hand pressed to Aki's stomach to keep him from escaping again, and drifts off without meaning to.

Someone is speaking to him.

"Mm-hm?" he says, blinking his eyes open and reflexively taking a drink from the can in his hand (it's flat, and he grimaces at the taste).

Aki plucks the can away and pats Bullseye's knee. "They're here. Mac should be abusing the doorbell any moment now."

That's one of the more minor oddities of Karla's pet monster: he seems to love pressing buttons, especially ones that make noise. By now, Karla is probably a preferred customer of the company that makes those electronic bubble-wrap keychains.

The bell chimes repeatedly, in a way that never fails to drive Aki up the wall; Bullseye gets up to answer the door, so that Aki won't stick a claw through the poor little putz when he walks in.

Karla's there in a slinky white dress and four-inch designer heels, holding (of all things) a Spider-Man backpack. She smells like makeup and Chanel. _God_, he wants to fuck her, but he's pretty sure that's one of those things that would seriously piss Aki off; Karla was _not_ a sweet enough fuck to risk that sudden permanent disappearing act Aki mentioned way back in San Francisco.

Mac drifts down from the ceiling and waves.

One of Mac's _major_ oddities is his aversion to floors. He'll sit at the table, and he'll sit on the couch, but he generally opts for the ceiling (Karla claims it isn't so bad, because he keeps the cobwebs down).

"Any trouble finding the place?" Bullseye asks amiably.

"You've been here a whole month already," Mac points out. "And we visited twice after the houssewarming thing."

"Hate to just drop him and run, but my flight's in an hour and the line's gonna be godawful," Karla apologizes, handing over the backpack. "A huge bag of cheese puffs, a whole box of microwave popcorn, his anxiety meds if he needs them. He had a big dinner yesterday, so he shouldn't strictly need to eat anybody else while he's here. You've got my number if there's an emergency. Gotta go, be back Thursday." And she hurriedly smacks his ass, kisses Mac's cheek, and leaves.

By the time Bullseye finishes closing the door and turns around, Mac has taken up residence on the couch, remote in hand.

Akihiro is standing in the door to the kitchen, looking extremely put-out.

"Don't make that face," Bullseye chides as he saunters up. "What if you stick that way?"

"It's on the furniture," mutters Aki. He wrinkles his nose.

"You guys get any soap networks?" Mac asks.

Aki closes his eyes as if to will Mac out of existence.

The whole thing amuses the hell out of Bullseye, so he grins and steals a kiss.

"Don't kiss me while you're being smug about that _thing_ on the settee."

"Calling him a 'thing' is kinda harsh. I thought you liked Mac a little more than _that_."

"I like the symbiote. _Mac_ is a whiny little cretin. Nervous, approval-seeking, insecure, and easily manipulated. I didn't really give a shit back at the tower, but I don't like having him in my _home_, and he'd better not track any blood on the carpet—or the ceiling, as the case may be."

"Can we order pizza?" Mac wants to know.

"No, you may _not_ bring a pizza in here," hisses Aki. "Not with the way _you_ eat."

Bullseye rolls his eyes. "Don't be such a bitch. Mac, if you keep it in the dining room and don't make a mess, you can order pizza."

Mac glances around. "Yeah, wouldn't want sauce on the carpet. Or the couch."

"Settee," Aki grits out through clenched teeth. "It's a _settee_, and it's suede, which is incredibly hard to clean, and if you get so much as a _speck_ of popcorn or cheese powder on it, I will strangle you with your own tongue."

Mac looks their way, and the expressive face simulated by the symbiote shows such disdain that Bullseye can't help snickering. "Dude, what _is_ it with you and my tongue? Perv."

Aki's face has gone blank in that special way that means something is _not_ going his way (and he's probably seconds from to the typical Wolverine standby of clawing somebody).

"Even Mac bleeds," Bullseye says under his breath. "Think of the stains."

"I am," mutters Aki. "They'll be very pretty, and I'll smile the whole time I'm cleaning them up."

"Don't be like that." Slowly but firmly, Bullseye puts his hands on Akihiro's shoulders and steers him toward the bedroom. "Just sit in there with your book and ignore him. Come on, we're doing Karla a favor. Her place would be a mess if she left him there for three days on his own."

The mental image seems to amuse Aki, who sits imperiously in the chair under the Tiffany lamp. "All right, Lester. For the sake of your absurd and fruitless crush on Karla, I will mind my own business until Thursday. My living room had best be spotless and _intact_ at that point, or Karla's little pet will be missing some bits and pieces when she comes to retrieve him."

"Yeah, yeah," Bullseye dismisses, leaning in to grasp the doorknob.

"And you are going to make this up to me, my sweet," Aki adds.

Bullseye rolls his eyes with a grin. "Oh, no, not that." And he shuts the door.

"Ditched the wife?" Mac grunts as Bullseye reclaims his spot in front of the TV.

"He can still hear you."

"Good. I want him to know I think he's a nagging bitch. What kinda moviesss you got?"

"Some gory horror, couple of Thai martial arts, bunch of explosions…"

"Got Ssstar Trek?"

"Which one?"

"The newer one with the guy from Heroes. There's good sssplosions in that one—they blew up a whole planet. And Zoe Ssaldana's hot."

"So she is," Bullseye concedes, starting up the movie. He remembers that his previous can of Amp is flat. "Shit, I forgot to get something to drink…you want anything?"

Mac digs around in his Spidey backpack and holds out a plastic-wrapped packet. "Throw ssome popcorn in while you're up?"

**.End.**


	9. The Experiment

**warnings:** slash. mental illness. use of controlled substances (and the irresponsible detoxification thereof). Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s*** and f***).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

**timeline:** 2014 (a year after **The Sitter**).

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) olanzapine = zyprexa, mostly for the treatment of chronic manic schizophrenia. aripiprazole = abilify, mostly for the treatment of aggressive symptoms and autism. methylin/methylphenidate = ritalin, mostly for the treatment of focus problems and autism. you should always consult your doctor before stopping a prescription medication, as the result is generally a detoxification period that can have dangerous side-effects. in the case of methylin/ritalin, quitting cold-turkey can lead to fever, arrhythmia, heart attack, and stroke. 2) "the San Francisco thing" is explained in Distil. 3) most of the withdrawal symptoms here would only show up for someone who'd been taking methylin and antipsychotics in fairly high doses regularly for several months to a year (abusing any of the drugs would make the symptoms show up when quitting after a much shorter use period).

* * *

><p><strong>The Experiment<strong>

Bullseye has been a masochist for nearly as long as he's been a sadist, albeit to a much lesser degree.

But even though he knows how to enjoy pain, _this_ is something too persistent and intense for him to tolerate. _This_ is beyond simple pain and into that unpleasant realm that mixes pain and discomfort to create _misery_.

Of all his meds, he has never run out of methylin. He was warned by Osborn's gaggle of flapping little white-coated doctors that coming down from it would be dangerous and extremely unpleasant, especially cold turkey. When he has trouble getting it, he rations what he has left; but the worst he's had to put up with was a week of half-doses (it gives him insomnia and the shakes).

At the start of this little experiment, Akihiro unconcernedly announced that he thought it was an act of either extreme petulance or extreme stupidity.

_At least keep taking the methylin._

But that would defeat the purpose of the experiment.

The idea is to test himself, to see how well he could get by if he bolted with nothing but the clothes on his back. The idea is to see if he could do without Akihiro. Just to see. Just in case Aki gets tired of him, turns on him, abandons him somewhere for shits and giggles (because he refuses to admit even to himself how much the San Francisco thing scared him, but he'll be damned if he's gonna just sit there and cry like a fucking pansy-ass bitch if it happens again).

At this point, the answer is conclusively 'not if it means leaving the pills behind.'

It's only the second day of the experiment, and Bullseye is fairly certain that this is Hell. (He _thinks_ it's the second day, but he hasn't been able to sleep, so it could actually be the third.)

He feels cold, but he's sweating. His scalp is clammy with the clinging dampness of his hair, and he wishes for the millionth time that he had never let Aki talk him into growing it out again (he could cut it, but Aki likes it…the damn hair will be the first thing to go if he ever _does_ get dumped on the side of the road). His hands keep shaking. His heart refuses to keep a steady beat. His head aches fiercely. His stomach is empty and churning. With every tiny movement he makes, the world throbs and tips crazily. His skin feels ill-fitting and itchy, like ants are crawling just beneath it. All his limbs are leaden.

It's like being drunk and hungover and heavily concussed at the same time, and he has never been so goddamn grateful for an overpriced bed and blackout curtains.

He knows his other meds are starting to wear off when he sees _eyes_ watching him from the shadows. Groaning, he drags a pillow over his head.

"I told you not to," Aki says brightly from the kitchen.

He wishes someone would come and annoy the fuck out of Aki the way the little fairy bitch is doing to him.

All around, in the darkness, over his shoulder, in his _head_, people—_things_—are snickering at him. And suddenly he's beyond angry, beyond pissed, he's _fucking livid_. He hates the pillow, and he hates the laughing voices, and he hates the shadows, and he hates the curtains, and he hates, hates,hateshates_hatesHATES_—

The world is suddenly blindingly bright, with painful shards of color here and there, but the laughing things in the shadows have vanished.

There's warmth at his back, and he can't move his arms.

"Calm down," Aki whispers to him. "It's all right."

Just like that, the anger's gone again, leaving him numb and breathless.

"And now you know what it's like to stop taking your pills. Tomorrow will be worse; the aripiprazole will start wearing off, if it hasn't already. There are much easier ways to kill yourself, Lester—ways that don't involve taking the apartment with you. Are you done with this little game of yours?"

He wishes he had a clever retort. He settles for puking on Akihiro's side of the bed.

"Yes, I thought you might feel that way. Shall I get your evening dose for you, darling?"

"What the fuck d'you think?" Bullseye grumbles. He looks at the window and the evil, too-bright daylight. "What happened to the curtains?"

And Aki—beautiful, insufferable, oh-so-superior Aki—just laughs and leaves the room. The smug bastard comes back with a handful of pills and a glass of water.

Struggling, Bullseye manages to sit up. The world quakes, and his ears ring. He gulps drugs and water and tries to ignore the thick feeling in his ears.

"There," says Aki, kissing his cheek (he'd flinch away if he didn't feel like his head might fall off). "No one will ever take care of you as well as I do. You're the luckiest pet in the world."

He wishes he had the energy to punch out a few of Akihiro's teeth.

**.End.**


	10. I Feel Fine

this was actually the starting point of my writing Dark Avengers stuff; MerianMoriarty requested "Daken/Lester fluff," and the very idea broke my brain so much that this popped out over the course of about 20 minutes while I was waiting for a call at work.

**warnings:** omgFLUFF (as much as D/L can ever get fluffy XD). slash. hints of het. mental illness. use of controlled substances. violence. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). language: r (s**t, f**k, f*g).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye). implied Karla/Mac (Moonstone/Venom). XD

**timeline:** 2019, the day of The Big One.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) as you can see, this crosses over with **Nightmares**. 2) olanzapine = zyprexa, mostly for the treatment of chronic manic schizophrenia. aripiprazole = abilify, mostly for the treatment of aggressive symptoms and autism. methylin/methylphenidate = ritalin, mostly for the treatment of focus problems and autism. 3) clearly, daken being fluffy must mean that he is getting crotchety and senile. XD 4) "kuso" is japanese for "shit," but the japanese use it as frequently and casually as americans use "damn." 5) oh, and the title is from the REM song "It's the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine)."

* * *

><p><strong>I Feel Fine<strong>

Lester is chewing his nails again. It irritates Daken, if only because it reminds him that he has failed over the past several weeks to procure another copy of the prescription Osborn drew up so many years ago.

Lester was already broken when Daken met him. He'd been diagnosed with varying psychoses throughout his life, and all the esoteric medical procedures—the partial healing factor, the adamantium bonding on most of his skeleton, the nano-chain, the nano-machines that repaired his spinal cord—did even more interesting things to his brain. But, as one might expect, the drugs Osborn put him on to make him controllable also made him much worse. Antipsychotics, sedatives, psychostimulants, antidepressants…small wonder he's reduced to a shaking, sweating, hallucinating mess when he runs out.

And one of the key points of leverage that Daken first used over Lester was his ability to get those precious drugs that let Lester live a (relatively) normal life.

Daken frowns and considers the problem.

He's losing his touch.

He knows he's not losing his looks—no, he's looked exactly the same for more than forty years (give or take a few changes of hairstyle, and a few more recent additions to his tattoos). It's not that his interest in the game has changed—he's always disdained the people he seduced, always thought of them only for what he could get out of them, or for their looks, or for the amusement of playing them like instruments.

_Monogamy_, it seems, has started to very firmly disagree with his accustomed lifestyle. Lo—being _fond_ of Lester has put him off other people, even people he finds fascinating or attractive, and makes it harder and harder to swallow feelings of disgust when he needs to get into some doctor's pants.

Lester wipes at his brow, blinks hard like he's fighting to keep his vision steady.

Daken hates the bitter taste of guilt, so he pushes his tea aside and leans across the table to capture Lester's hands in his (callused and strong, and warm, and it's disgustingly sentimental, but he likes the feeling of Lester's fingers on his skin). "Penny for your thoughts, sweetness," he purrs.

Pale eyes skitter over him, slide away. "The world keeps shaking. And my ears won't pop. And I keep thinking it's Tuesday. And that stupid fucking Ark broadcast keeps playing in my brain, and he's _there_ and he's not laughing, which is fucked up, because Wilson fucking thinks _everything's_ funny, and if the fucking end of the world's really coming, I don't wanna just fucking sit here and roll over and fucking _die_ and I think I want something strong to drink." Lester tugs a hand free and scrubs the heel of his palm over one eye.

"It's Friday," Daken calmly says, kissing the rough knuckles of the hand he's still holding. "And Deadpool is hardly any saner now than he ever was, if he really thinks that some ridiculous Armageddon is upon us."

"Fuck. Friday? What happened to yesterday and the day before? Shit. Can't we just go find out where Karla's hiding these days? She'd write me a scrip. I'm _out_, Aki, I've been out since yesterday, unless by 'yesterday' I really mean Monday, in which case, yeah, _Monday_, and I'm fucking _falling off my rocker_. I _hate_ what I get like without my meds."

The casual slip of the nickname tickles down Daken's spine. He hates his name, but he loves the way it sounds on Lester's lips; he hates the fact that only desperation would make Lester babble like this, but he loves knowing that he's the only one allowed to see this kind of weakness in Lester. He frames Lester's face in his hands, rises from his seat to lean their brows together. "We talked about this," he murmurs against trembling lips. "Since we killed Norman, you and I have never needed anyone else. No one but each other. All right?"

With a snarl, Lester jerks away and takes a blind swipe at him. "God_fuckyou_," he gulps, bolting from the table and staggering into the kitchen.

Frowning, Daken follows in time to twist a chef's knife out of Lester's hand before it can find its mark in the opposite palm. The smells of fear and hatred and withdrawal-sickness are cloying, but he wrestles his lover to the ground and simply holds him, waiting for the obscenities and the hoarse sobbing to die away.

It's moments like this, when going without has made Lester snap and turn into this fragile _shell_ of himself, that Daken nearly chokes on guilt and the urge to simply walk away. But he can't. He can't, because the thought of Lester wandering without a caretaker, with no reliable source for the meds that keep him from becoming a _basket case_, leaves him feeling cold and gutted. It's worse than the guilt. It's almost as bad as the idea of relying on someone _else_ (relying on Lester is different, he's only relying on Lester to be warm and rough and cruel and beautiful, and as long as Lester has his meds, he _always will be_).

He buries his face in the crook of Lester's neck and berates himself for the wet prickle of weakness in his eyes.

The ring of the doorbell is startlingly unexpected, and Lester manages to wriggle free and sprint for the door.

Daken looks at the knife, two feet away on the polished oak planking. Sighing, he picks it up and throws it back in the block.

"Jesus, you look like shit," he hears Karla say from the doorway.

"Karla!" Lester cries, and Daken cringes at the relief in his voice. "Have you got a pen? Nevermind, we've gotta have a fucking pen somewhere in this fucking yuppie flat from hell… I ran out of, of, of olanzapine like a-a _week_ ago, and f-fucking aripiprazole and methylin yesterday. Or Monday. Or. I don't even fucking know."

"Lester, you can't just stop taking those," she sighs. "Once you start on an antipsych regimen, you've gotta stick with it, or you'll relapse harder than ever. Thought you'd learned that five years ago when you 'decided you didn't need them anymore.'"

Daken wanders out and folds his arms over his chest.

Karla gives him a disdainful once-over. "Three years since I've seen your sorry ass and you're still dressing like queer-bait."

"What are you doing here, Karla?" he drawls with exaggerated disinterest.

Lester hurries past him to start looking for a pen and paper.

She cocks a hip. She looks pretty and sensuous and perfectly desirable, but Daken doesn't even feel a flicker of interest (and he hates himself for that). "You see that Ark broadcast, or whatever they're calling it? CNN's having fun replaying it every hour, on the hour, in between footage of the carriers."

"Deadpool is _insane_," he tells her patiently. "And no effort to the contrary has done much good that _I_ can discern."

"Ha," she snorts. "Leave the psychoanalyzing to the professionals, sister. Your pet is considerably less sane than Deadpool at this point."

Amid the rustling and shifting of drawers, a raucous crash sounds, and Daken finds himself rushing over without a thought for being observed (they're not used to company, after all). "Easy," he soothes, catching up straining wrists and holding on until the fit of manic frustration fades.

"If Deadpool's right," Karla says, inviting herself the rest of the way into the apartment, "we've got about a day and a half to get on the nearest carrier. We should leave soon. Last time I checked, the line was pretty long."

"Fuck that," Daken dismisses, and guides Lester to the settee before picking a pen and a pad of paper out of the wreckage of the writing desk (antique, and he'd rather liked it). "We don't need anything from anyone, least of all that crazed moron."

"You know, for such a prissy little bitch, you don't take very good care of your toys," Karla says sweetly. "A week off the Zyprexa isn't that big a deal; his usual manic episodes never seemed to bother him much. The Abilify and the Ritalin are going to fuck him up. You can't cold-turkey Ritalin, and all the major autistic symptoms he showed after that nasty psychotic break have been well-controlled while he's on Abilify. Just get him his damn pills, if you care that much. Otherwise, he's not worth the hassle. I mean, _really_, princess—an adamantium-plated autistic murderer isn't exactly a low-maintenance pet."

"Fuck you," he snaps, and suddenly feels he's out of his depth (for the first time in _sixty years_). He tosses the pen and paper onto the coffee table and sits next to Lester.

"Bitch, _please_," she snorts. "You're a bigger slut than _I_ am, and aside from the six-pack and the god-like ass, you're not my type."

Lester grabs the remote, turns on the TV he bought himself at the beginning of the month (and the thing is admittedly huge and shiny and terribly impressive).

A CNN reporter is babbling about all the famous people reported to have boarded the carriers. Daken wants to throw something at the damn woman. There's a countdown in the corner of the screen.

"Hey, Karla, we've got a guest room 'n stuff," Lester says, almost as though he's just noticed the blonde's presence. "You could…I dunno, stay the night or whatever. Where's Mac? Wasn't he with you?"

"He'll be along," she replies. "He got distracted on the way. I think he saw someone appetizing and stopped for a bite."

Lester snickers like he's on the verge of delirium. "Good ol' Mac. Fuckin' end of the world as we know it, and he's still chowing down on crunchy hookers. Shit, now 'm hungry. Aki, I'm hungry."

Karla raises her eyebrows at the nickname, but Daken studiously ignores her. He catches up Lester's hand. "Shall I see what's in the fridge, my sweet? There should be plenty of eggs; I'll make you an omelet." He stands, leans in for a kiss (Lester obliges without protest, a sure sign that he's not in his right mind), makes his way back to the kitchen.

Making an omelet is easy, mechanical. It doesn't require thought, it doesn't incite troublesome emotions.

He's old enough by now that he thought he'd gotten rid of the ability to become _attached_, but he is so very, inextricably _attached_ to Lester. First, it was a challenge, it was an amusement, it was a puzzle. Then, that puzzle turned out to be absolutely _breathtaking_ in the act of gleeful carnage, and intoxicating to fight. And then had come the fucking, and Lester was just as obsessive and fierce and rough in that as he was in everything else he did. And somewhere along the way, Lester had stopped struggling, stopped trying to escape. 'I hate you' started to be said with a teasing tone and 'I'll kill you' became an epithet of encouragement (usually followed by 'if you stop'). And instead of becoming bored after his triumph, Daken found he reveled in it. Lester is no less entertaining and dangerous and delicious now than he was ten years ago.

He hisses in mild surprise when the pen from the coffee table jabs through his bicep. "_Really_, Lester, childish shows of impatience won't make it cook faster," he sighs, and yanks the pen free (blood splatters across the kitchen, across Lester, in pretty cast-off patterns). In truth, he is shaken by not having noticed Lester's entrance to the kitchen. When caring for a manic schizophrenic with aggressive autistic tendencies, distraction is _not good_. The guilt hits hard, and he tosses the pen aside to beckon Lester to him.

Lester moves, dragging his fingers through the red droplets on his hooded sweatshirt.

Daken draws him close against his side in a half-hug, and he can smell the slow onset of calm in his companion. As long as he doesn't say anything to set Lester off, the physical contact will have a pacifying effect for a while.

Sighing, Lester drops his cheek to Daken's shoulder. "The ceiling is spinning, and the lights keep turning colors. I'm coming apart, Aki, _ohgod_, it's like a bad morphine trip."

"Hush, love," he whispers against the carved scar on his lover's forehead, and deftly folds the omelet with one hand. "Come eat. You haven't eaten since breakfast."

A hand plucks at his shirt, rubbing the fine threads almost appraisingly. "Fuckin' cotton candy blue? What a faggot-ass color…god, you're such a fuckin' _flamer_."

Tired old insults from the days before Lester gave in. Occasionally, in between spurts of medication, they surface again and Daken has to remind himself that the loudest homophobes are homosexuals who were beaten as children. "Given sufficient motivation, I'll sleep with anything with a pulse," he replies easily. "And every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man, Lester."

"Anything with a pulse? So…like, _Wilson_?"

The memory is irritating, but not entirely unpleasant. He shrugs. "Like you haven't?"

"Hell, yeah, I fucked him. I said to myself, 'Man, there is no pussy in this jungle, and we're not leaving until that Frank Castle dick drops dead. He's a slut, he's desperate, and he's _ribbed for your pleasure_.'" Lester snickers, and Daken fights the urge to do something terrible, like stick his claws through one of Lester's kidneys.

He slides the omelet onto a plate, fetches a fork, sets it all down at the table. "Eat your goddamn food," he says dryly.

But Lester is on him, clinging, staring at him with unfocused eyes, cold sweat once more dotting his brow. "Don'tmakethatface," Lester breathes, hands clutching at his sleeves. "Beautiful when you make that face, but I hate it, I _hate_ it, it means you're _mad_ at me, and I don't know what I did but I won't again so don't make that face." A feverish, frantic kiss.

Mollified, Daken rubs a hand along Lester's back. "Pay it no mind, my dear. Eat."

The afternoon passes slowly into evening. Karla amuses herself by flipping through the news channels to watch the debate about whether to take the Ark Project seriously, turns the volume up just to annoy Daken. Mac rings the bell over and over until Karla opens the door for him, and they take over the living room, snickering at the scientists and theologians and 'representatives of the meta-human community.'

In the fading sunlight, Lester finally subsides from his manic phase for the day, stares with intense concentration at the pedestrians on the streets far below.

Daken will never admit it, but he's emotionally exhausted. He makes himself some tea and wonders bitterly why no one ever warned him that monogamy and domesticity were terminal illnesses that he could potentially catch. He used to party and murder his way through life, and here he is, in a flat he actually _pays rent for_, with has-been supervillains watching fucking _Fox News_ on his suede settee and his decidedly defective toy/pet/boyfriend/object of fascination/_whatever_ smudging the window with his nose like some kid at the zoo.

It's sick, and it's sad, and it's even worse because he looks around and thinks, 'Fuck the end of the world, these are _my_ things, and I like them, and I don't feel like giving them up.'

Clearly, he's getting _old_. Soon, he'll be saying things like 'in my day,' and 'kids have no respect,' and 'turn down that racket.' He thinks he'd like to jump out the window.

"Morons," Karla laughs at the television. "Congress won't leave because they're in session. People are saying the President should stay 'to reassure the American people,' but I'm pretty sure he hasn't been in Washington since they found out everybody at Haven hoofed it for the carriers."

"Makess ssense," Mac opines. "If the mutiesss are abandoning ship, maybe they know ssomething we don't."

"I don't care," Daken announces, hoping futilely that Karla and Mac will get the hint and shut the fuck up.

"Fifty-three," Lester mumbles from the window, pointing to something on the street.

"Fifty-three what, my sweet?" Daken asks gamely. He stares into his teacup, swirls it and watches the leaves dance along the bottom.

"People in the past hour that've been packed for Armageddon. You know, if he's wrong, the worst that happens is we end up going on a field trip for a few days. If he's right, my TV's going to be vaporized."

"Ah. Alas for the new television."

"Pfft. Better the TV than me," Lester says. "Fifty-four."

"You'll feel very silly if you cram yourself onto one of those things like a sardine and absolutely _nothing_ happens."

Lester laughs. "Fifty-six. And you'll feel like a retard if you stay here with your designer shirts and your handmade shoes and get _nuked_. Would you regen from a nuke? Might be worth leaving you here just to see. Bet you wouldn't. Fifty-seven."

"Would you like that?" Daken asks.

Shuffling, uneven steps. Shaking hands grasp his sleeve, just below the blood-stained hole. "Do you have to be a _dick_?" Lester mutters. "Of _course_ I wouldn't; I'm the only one allowed to kill you for keeps. God, fuck this fucking Stockholm bullshit…" And he shuffles back to the window.

Daken just sits and drinks his tea.

Karla yawns and stretches (her back pops in several places), walks through the kitchen. "It's been a long day. Spare blankets still where they were?" she asks, already opening the linen closet.

"Do stay the night, won't you," Daken says with pointed insincerity.

She runs a finger down his unstained sleeve. "Darling _Lester_ already invited us to. Let's see if you're still so stubborn in the morning, when everyone else is running screaming for the Helicarrier. He's never been on the right kind of drugs to want to just stay here and _die_."

He bats her hand away, and she giggles her way to the guest room.

An hour later, Mac turns off the TV and slithers after Karla.

The door shuts, the mattress shifts, sheets rustle, and then the only sounds in the flat are four heartbeats and four sets of lungs slowly breathing.

Almost on the stroke of midnight, Lester wanders to the master bathroom, brushes his teeth, uses the toilet. He takes off his sweater and gets in bed.

Daken goes on sitting at the table with his tea (long since gone cold) and decides he hates everything. He hates the news, and he hates the Ark Project, and he hates Deadpool, and he hates the stupid politicians and the stupid newscasters and the stupid masses of people. He hates Karla, and he hates Mac, and he hates Lester most of all (because he also loves him, and love is a colossal goddamn waste of time and energy and has _ruined_ his ability to enjoy the world and all it has to offer him).

He wonders where things went wrong, what's different, what changed. He concludes that things worked out this way because he's never met someone so delightfully twisted in all the right ways as Lester, and because Lester was actually _amused_ when he realized Daken had won.

Around three, Lester gets out of bed, comes back to the dining room, and sits down on the floor beside Daken. In a very businesslike fashion, he settles with his back to the chair, using Daken's thigh for a pillow, grabs Daken's left arm and drapes it over his neck like a scarf.

"Comfortable?" Daken asks sourly.

"Yep," Lester sighs, and promptly goes to sleep.

Profanities fly through Daken's head. He very nearly gives in to the desire to shatter his teacup on Lester's skull. The worst part of everything is the knowledge that this pathetic domestic lifestyle is entirely of his own making. He's the one who trained his pet into things like being unable to sleep without him.

At seven, Karla wakes up and monopolizes the television again. Half an hour later, Mac helps himself to most of the food in the fridge.

Cultists and quacks and doomsayers babble away on the various news channels.

"I like this shirt," Lester says, and Daken realizes he didn't notice his lover waking up.

"Oh?" he says.

"Color makes your eyes look really bright."

It's unfair, since it's his fault Lester ran out of meds, but Daken has no patience today. "Funny. Yesterday you said it was a 'faggot-ass' color."

"Not my fault you dress like you raided fuckin' Ricky Martin's closet," Lester snorts. "Maybe the color's about as straight as Liberace, but it still looks good on you. And since when do you give a damn what I say?"

Daken doesn't know the answer, so he doesn't say anything.

"Know what would be great right now?" Mac says to the world at large. "Pizza. I'll go get one." And he leaves.

"Ha, traffic's stopped," Karla muses. "Too many pedestrians dragging too much crap."

Lester gets up, goes to the bedroom, comes back tugging his hooded sweater back on. "Well, it's a long walk, even if we cut in line. I'm leaving now."

Daken clenches his hands around his chilly teacup.

"_Now_?" Karla says, sounding confused.

"Traffic's stopped," Lester points out as he steps into a beat-up ('_broken in_' Lester always insists) pair of sneakers. "Even if we rode the subway to the nearest stop—assuming the subway's still running—it'll be an hour working our way through all the rats jumping ship. You can stay and wait for the end of the world if you want, but I'm outta here."

Karla rushes for the guest room, comes back hopping into the neat grey heels that match her charcoal pinstriped suit. "Okay, let's go," she says.

"We're going now," Lester calls from the front door. "Last call."

"_Kuso_," Daken mutters to himself, rinsing his teacup and going to slip on his shoes. "You're going to feel very _stupid_ when I'm right," he declares as he ties them.

"Yeah, sure, sweetheart," Lester says. He tugs his hood up. "Sure you don't wanna go back and get your matched luggage?"

Daken snatches his wallet and keys from the hall table. "Fuck you."

"Maybe when I've had my meds again."

The streets are _packed_. Irritated businessmen and everyday-shoppers try in vain to go about their daily business while the island is gridlocked with honking cars and a steady stream of refugees dragging their worldly possessions trickles toward the Helicarrier (which, obscured by buildings, is landed in Central Park).

"Ick," Karla grumbles, wrinkling her nose at all the _people_.

Without resorting to violence, it does indeed take them almost two hours to get within sight of the carrier, which looks like it's floating on a sea of humanity.

A ripple goes through the refugees—a shiver of disquiet.

Here and there, they start to note the time.

"Come on, come on, go _faster_…"

"Ten minutes—we'll never make it!"

"What's going to happen if we're late?"

"They wouldn't just leave us, would they?"

"We're going to die!"

Distantly, high above, Daken can hear the sound of a rocket-fueled object of some kind. A projectile.

He looks up and sees the thing, dark against the sky, the contrail almost pretty behind it. Terror and anger and hatred flare in his gut—that damned maniac was _right_, and they're about to be _vaporized_ unless they can fucking well shoulder all these useless idiots aside like so many cattle.

Karla chuckles. "You were wrong."

Daken ignores her, grabbing Lester by the elbow. "_Run_!" he shouts, already in motion.

"I can't when you're fucking clinging like a pansy bitch!" Lester retorts, but still manages to keep pace.

Someone he shoves falls and starts to cry. He ignores the racket and extends the claws of his free hand, concentrates on cutting a path.

"God, if you'd fucking listened to me—" Lester is saying, but Daken just keeps moving, jumps over the spilled contents of a wheelbarrow, feels Lester stumble and tightens his grip until he feels unyielding metal.

He doesn't slow down until they're through the open airlock, keeps moving until he's found a corner he can keep clear of all the human _trash_ filling the place, wrenches Lester around to look at his face, to make sure he's all right. "Look at me, look at me," he gasps, hands fumbling under Lester's hood. "Are you hurt?"

"What? No. What? I'm fine, aside from wanting my damn pills and going fucking _crazy_ again and the goddamn bruise you put on my elbow trying to dislocate my damn arm and—"

He kisses Lester with giddy relief, and his damned traitorous eyes are _stinging_.

"Don't," Lester whispers against him. "Don't cry. I'm okay. I'm really okay."

Klaxons sound in the distance, belatedly. An alarm buzzes on the ship, and a voice on a loudspeaker warns that they're taking off, the airlocks are closing, stand clear. Outside, the mob starts to scream. The windows darken, and the voice reminds them not to look at the flash, and that there will be brief turbulence from the shockwave and the EMP.

"Mac," Karla says, and her expensive pumps make loud clacking noises as she runs for the airlock.

"Don't look at the light, love," Daken tells Lester, and turns them so that he's the one facing the window. The sad remnants of the crowd are jumping and screaming and waving their arms, but they're already a hundred feet below. The city starts to shrink away; slowly at first, then quickly, and then the world turns _white_ for a moment before bursting into a pillar of flame. All along the coast in either direction are more flashes, more fire. A low _boom_ reaches them, followed by several more.

There goes the wall-to-wall, the mahogany table, the crystal, the Viking kitchen, the suede settee…there go the Vuitton jeans and the Armani shirts and the Gucci sweaters.

Karla makes her way back to them through the weeping press of bodies, and she's dragging Mac with her—skinny and wide-eyed and human, clinging to her and shaking like a lost child.

With a sigh, Daken wearily sits against the wall. Lester slips down next to him, loops an arm around his waist, and Karla arranges herself on his other side, patting his knee.

"Just like old times," she says cheerfully.

**.End.**


	11. Staring Down an Earthquake

people, pets, and plans.

**warnings:** slash with hints of dom/sub. minor het inklings (also somewhat dom/sub). mention of cannibalism. mental illness and mention of controlled substances. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). language: pg-13 (for f*** and g**damn).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye), Karla/Mac (Moonstone/Venom).

**timeline:** late 2019, just after they board the carrier in **I Feel Fine**.

**disclaimer:** the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

**notes:** 1) title is a reference to a song lyric of MerianMoriarty's: "Standing taller than a mountain, flying the finger with both hands, and I'm / Staring down an earthquake toppling the sky." the recording she shared with me was kinda staticky, but the song is cool (kinda folk-rock). if you're curious, ask her for the lyrics to a song called "Monolith." 2) it's not specifically mentioned in any references, but i'm pretty sure we've seen Karla use the moonstone to project shields on things other than herself. 3) if you'll recall, Mac went out for pizza shortly before Lester decided they should run their asses to the carrier. 4) don't strain yourself trying to remember "the Latveria job," this is the first time i've mentioned it. 5) H.P. Lovecraft was the guy who made tentacle monsters famous. he wrote about romance, witchcraft, and spooky critters from Beyond.

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><p><strong>Staring Down an Earthquake<strong>

Karla doesn't think kindly of human beings in general. She likes people who are useful, she likes people who are forceful. She likes people who are good looking enough to be worth watching or fucking (but looks aren't enough to save them if they become inconvenient).

She likes Lester, has always liked him. Defective as he is, he's trim and able and funny.

Daken is good-looking, and very useful, but annoying as hell.

But Mac is different.

Mac is hers. _Hers_. Like a pathetic little puppy (that can throw armored cars and leap tall buildings and rip people limb from limb). He's scrambled after her for ten years now, because she's pretty and she puts up with him and she doesn't hurt him (and from what she's gleaned over the years, that's a first in his interpersonal relationships).

She tired herself out using her powers to make a bubble around him, to drag him to the carrier (and even with the stone's energy surrounding him, the symbiote had been burning off from the radiation), and she'd normally be disgusted at herself for expending effort that didn't directly benefit her…she'd normally laugh and just let the poor sap die, serve him right for trusting that someone else will protect him…but no. No, this is Mac, after all. Karla would feel…_incompetent_ if she let something happen to him.

It's silly—no, it's downright _stupid_—but there's a compulsion to prove that she's a better caretaker than Daken. And what sort of nasty, snarky little remarks would she hear for the next god-knows-how-many years if she hadn't saved Mac? Just thinking about it irritates her.

Being on the carrier is distasteful. Outside the little bubble of personal space afforded by some weird 'fuck off and die' vibe that Daken's putting out, the corridors are packed with people and their things. Sardines, like Daken said before they left. They smell, and they cry, and they're dirty, and _ugh_. She can't stand the sight of them, and she's hungry from skipping breakfast, and she feels grimy from skipping a morning shower.

Hungry.

Guiltily, she glances at Mac.

He's still clinging to her arm like some lost kid. His preferred shape makes it easy to forget that _under it_ he's only average height and a bit on the lanky side. He's been staring at the high school girl next to them for two hours straight.

If Karla's feeling hungry, Mac must be _starving_.

On cue, his hands tighten on her bicep and he gives a little whimper. "I'm so _hungry_…I never got my pizza."

She doesn't have anything on her, and the carpet of dirty, snotty, pathetic _humans_ is blocking the way to anything like a mess hall or cafeteria. So she stays silent and just pats one of his hands.

"Anybody got a candy bar or somethin'?" he mumbles, eyes still locked on the sniveling teenager.

"What?" snorts Daken from his reclined position across their laps (head on Lester's, legs on Karla's…the muscled curve of his thigh feels nice under her hand). "Oh, yes, in the rush of the untimely demolition of Manhattan, I had the motherly presence of mind to stuff a goddamn Snickers in my purse. If I weren't so sure you _are_, I'd ask if you were a _fucking moron_."

"Fuck you, man, I'm fucking _hungry_," Mac says sullenly, and his short-tempered retort is proof of desperation—he's been terrified of Daken for the past five years, though he won't say why. "Have you ever starved? _Really_ starved, nothing but water for a week, that kinda thing?"

Daken shifts a bit and sighs, as though bored. "Yes."

"Well, if I don't get a steady diet of…substantial meals…I pretty much feel like that _all the time_."

"If you eat that little girl, I'll claim I don't know you," Daken declares.

"It'd take too long at this size, I'd haveta chew 'n stuff. She looks good, though, right? Maybe kinda stringy in the arms, but beggars 'n choosers 'n all."

"You won't starve to death in a day," Karla points out gently.

"Yeah, I _know_, but I'm still gonna be _hungry_, and it ain't _nice_ to feel this hungry, and how'd you like it if you felt like that and somebody set a big, juicy steak next t' ya and said 'by the way, don't eat this'?"

"Think about something else, then," Lester suggests drowsily. "Or take a nap."

"A nap? What'm I, fuckin' _five_? Cranky kids get naps, 's that it? I'm not fuckin' sleepy, I'm fuckin' _hungry_, oh_god_I'mhungry. I mean it, guys—a bag o' peanuts, a stray Skittle, a piece of _gum_. I'll take _anything_."

"Lester's right," chides Karla. "Dwelling on it won't help; try to think about something different. Go over the last dozen things you liked on the home shopping channel."

"Mentally, please," Daken says sourly. "Some of us loathe television."

So Mac cuddles Karla's arm and stares longingly at the crying little teen girl. She pets him, just a hand over his hair, and he seems to settle.

After a moment, Daken quickly twists into a crouching position, holding Lester close. She can see from the dance of tensing muscles in his back that he must be keeping Lester's wrists captive, riding out a brief manic fit. "Shh," he whispers, like a mother with a baby. "It's all right…it's all right, I'm here."

"Let me see," she sighs, tapping Daken's shoulder.

He snarls, face feral for a moment before smoothing. Then he moves so that she can scoot closer (Mac clings tightly, as if afraid she's leaving, so she just drags him along with her).

"Lester, it's Karla," Daken says. "She wants to have a look at you."

"Karla," Lester sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Jesus."

"I don't have a light with me," she says, gently turning his face. "Here, tip up so I can see better." She tugs his eyelid up so she can have a good look at his eye and its pupillary reactions. His fever burns stickily against her palm, and if he were almost anyone else, she'd draw away in disgust.

"Well?" Daken demands.

"He's de-toxing," she replies, leaning away again. "He's got a fever, and he's probably a little delirious. How long had he been on Ritalin this time?"

"Eight months. He went to half-doses a week ago."

"That's not so bad, then. Lester, try to get some sleep. The best thing you can do until we have access to food and water is to rest."

"Here, lean on me, precious," Daken says, obligingly turning himself into a convenient headrest.

Karla just watches them settle together, disturbingly normal for the kinds of men they are (a narcissistic sociopath and a psychopathic murderer), and wonders how long the Helicarriers can stay airborne without resupplying (and where Wilson and his weird superhero buddies think they'll be able to go). And then she wonders again what finally made Mac actually _afraid_ of Daken. "Hey, Mac?"

"Mm?" he mumbles against her arm, and his stomach growls quietly.

"What happened five years ago?"

"What d'ya mean, 'what happened'?"

"Y'know, when we all met up for the Latveria job."

Mac just huddles beside her and doesn't answer.

"He tried to eat me," Daken says. "So I knocked out about twenty of his fangs and cut off his tongue. And then I told him that if he ever so much as looked at me the wrong way again, I would cut off parts he would miss much more."

"_And_ he called me a cheap knock-off of a Lovecraftian horror," Mac adds accusingly.

"You must be the most insecure, emotionally fragile man-eating alien monster _ever_."

"Words hurt, you know."

"Oh, I know," Daken replies with a smile. "Words have always been one of my favorite weapons. Isn't that right, my dear?"

Lester makes a noise of discomfort. "My bones itch."

"That's some fortune-cookie Zen right there," Karla chuckles. "Your Magic Eight-ball is broken, princess."

Daken shakes his head. "No, but it only has three sides: whatever you say, fuck you, and try again later."

She looks at all the people again, and her mood plummets. "God. This is really fucking happening. The end of the world came, and Deadpool flew it the goddamn finger. And if you'll look out the window, you're sure to see a flock of pigs flapping by in a V. While the very idea of anybody planning for this eventuality is disturbing, please tell me you have a plan."

But instead of Daken's usual cocky smirk and the expected reply of 'I have a plan for everything,' she gets only silence.

After a while, he glances at her sidelong. "I'll think of something," he murmurs.

**.End.**


	12. Of Promises & Forever

'scuse me while i bash my head in against this handy wall. *BASH BASH BASH* the reason i skipped over so much of the stuff set in the early days of the fleet is that FRICKING DAKEN AND LESTER wouldn't stop being so GODDAMN FLUFFY. i give up now. really. i don't want to get to the last parts of **End of Dreaming** and have to use the excuse "THEY'VE BEEN TOGETHER MORE THAN 50 YEARS" for *spoiler spoiler spoiler*. this is what D&L are doing, no matter how much i try to make them do other things. if the characters really want to be fluffy, they will be fluffy against my greatest wishes. as we speak, i am turning in my man card and buying another pink apron (...i already have a frilly one that says 'kiss the cook'...shutup my husband bought it for me).

**warnings:** Earth-339. **semi-graphic sexual content**. slash with very light dom/sub undertones. reference to mental illness and the use of controlled substances. sci-fi. world-go-boom. language: r (for f***, s***, g**damn, and c*ck).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester, with a little bit of background Nate/Wade.

**timeline:** 2019, maybe four hours after the Big One.

**disclaimer:** i doesn't owns the movies, comics, or characters.

**notes:** 1) going back on an anti-psych regimen after a period of withdrawal won't get you back to 100% right away, but most patients immediately feel better, and some even feel almost 'normal.' 2) Daken wrenched Lester's arm running for the carrier in **I Feel Fine**. 3) Bullseye shooting DP through the head with an arrow happened in Deadpool #10 & #11. and it was, in fact, hilarious. 4) a berth is a bed on a boat or ship. it may also mean a full set of sleeping/living quarters, depending on what the standard accommodations are. 5) zyprexa = olanzapine, an anti-psychotic usually prescribed for the treatment of schizophrenia. 6) Lester really doesn't have a lot of room to talk about asking nicely, after the "f*ggot little teacup" line back in **Hate Machine**... 7) ah, superhuman stamina... 8) the .

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><p><strong>Of Promises and Forever<strong>

When Bullseye wakes from his brief nap, he feels like a person again. His vision is steady and clear, and his limbs don't feel like uncontrollable livewires. He sits still for a while longer, just to be sure. There's a twinge every once in a while, lingering traces of detox, but no irresistible urges to jump up and break things.

Akihiro is clinging to him—the same arm he bruised this morning, and it hurts.

"Hey," he says, looking over.

But Aki's face is hidden, and he doesn't show any sign that he's heard.

"That's the arm you wrenched earlier, y'know," Bullseye points out.

"There was a _nuclear missile_ flying at us," Aki mumbles sourly, voice muffled by Bullseye's sweater.

Bullseye nearly says 'I told you so,' but he's feeling generous after finally getting all the right drugs again (and Aki being clingy is an amusing novelty). "Yeah, well…could you do your Mac impression on the arm that _ain't_ bruised to hell and back?"

The reply is too muffled for Bullseye to make out, but the tone is something between a growl and an obstinate whine.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bullseye sighs. "Did the kid _really_ get under your skin that bad?"

More incoherent mumbling.

"I can't understand a single fucking word you're saying."

Aki leans up enough to glare (and his eyes are red and raw, Bullseye notes awkwardly). "I _said_, I don't like it when people know what I'm thinking."

"A telepath? I thought you healing-types couldn't be read."

"We _can't_ by _telepaths_, so she's _not_. Empath, maybe. A very powerful one, to be able to read such specific emotions."

"You have _emotions_?" Bullseye gasps in mock-surprise. "Why didn't I know that?"

Akihiro scowls and tightens his grip.

Bullseye hisses and almost blacks out—clearly that bruise is nastier than he'd first suspected. Maybe a pinched nerve or major blood vessel. "Okay! Shit, I'll stop with the jokes…you 'n your fucking lack of humor. Gotta run in the damn family, I swear." He blinks away greenish splotches in his vision.

The pressure is suddenly gone, and Aki climbs over him to sit on the other side, shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip. Aki drops his hands to his lap, and the nearest one brushes Bullseye's thigh (but he doesn't mention it, in case Aki decides to move it).

"And thanks for asking how I'm feeling now that I've got my meds again."

The hand at his thigh nudges his own—there's still dried blood on it from the sprint to the carrier, little flecks of red-brown that have caught in the band of the Rolex on Aki's wrist. "Well?" Aki says, soft finger tracing idly over scarred knuckles.

"Well what?"

"How _are_ you feeling?"

"Besides the arm you tried to rip off?"

"Aside from that, yes."

"Peachy. Fuckin' peachy. I feel like _myself_ again. It's enough to make a guy wanna do stupid shit."

"Like joining the 'good guys'?" Aki snorts, but all the fight's gone out of his voice.

"Wilson's not as fucking batshit crazy as Osborn was."

"I'm not sure that says much in his favor. Calling someone 'less insane than Norman Osborn' is like calling him 'less destructive than the Hulk.'"

Bullseye chuckles at that, and twines his fingers through Aki's. "Oh, so you _do_ have a sense of humor after all." As he's about to go on with another snide remark, he catches the scent of a cheeseburger, and his stomach growls.

A vague sense of _something_ bumps against his mind; cheerful and satisfied and well-meaning, and he starts to feel the same (even as he shudders in self-disgust at the sudden urge to be _nice_ to people).

"Ugh," mutters Aki. "Here she comes again. Nosy little bitch."

Wilson's kid threads through all the SHIELD losers and costumed super-losers like she owns the place, some kind of messenger bag full of water bottles slung over one shoulder and a paper sack in her hands. "Mr. B, you're awake!" she says, and smiles as she comes over.

"Terribly observant, that one," comes the disdainful snort from Akihiro.

Hope plops down and starts digging through the paper sack. "I didn't know what you'd like—Daddy's busy and everyone else here is being very anti-mercenary—so I asked Dr. Sofen what to get you, and she made some disparaging remarks about raw meat and mad cow disease, but since she was only joking _a little_, I thought burgers might be okay. Are you hungry?"

"Starved," Bullseye admits, watching her pull paper-wrapped bundles of _ohgodthatsmellsgood_ out of the sack and set them out in a little line. He snatches one up (shaking his other hand free of Aki's grip so he can eat), practically tears back the paper, and takes a huge bite.

Ah, good old fashioned greasy fried meat.

"I thought so. The _Avenger_ was the first ship we sent out, so it's got probably the highest population density, and I said to myself, 'there are so many people that I'll bet it was just too much trouble to try and find the mess hall.'"

Aki shifts a little, pressing closer. "My, but she does _talk a lot_, doesn't she?" he notes. "Got that from her father, I suppose."

"Could be," she says, ignoring the nasty edge to Aki's voice. "Mr. Daken, I know Daddy said I shouldn't try to make you be happy if you don't _want_ to be happy, but you really would enjoy life in general much more if you didn't have such mean and depressing thoughts all the time. Would you like some burgers, too?"

"Do I look like the sort of person who eats burgers?"

"You look like the sort of person who drinks soy lattes and has never seen a live cow. Also, you look like the sort of person who was stabbed with a pencil." She points to the bloodstain on Aki's sleeve.

"Pen," Bullseye corrects with his mouth full. "I threw a pen at him."

"Rogue once stabbed Daddy with a pen. At the time I was too young to really understand it, but he was making fun of her for her bad luck with boyfriends. I told her that she'd done it wrong, and if she'd aimed for his temple he would've been a drooling moron for half an hour, and that would probably have been a lot more satisfying."

Bullseye nearly chokes on his burger—he manages to swallow before giving in to the laughter. "That's _great_! Oh, you are _awesome_, kid… I once shot an arrow right through his head. Side-to-side, y'know, like those gag arrows you find at Halloween, 'cause it screws up the brain more that way. God, it was so fun watching him run around like a headless chicken… That was the day I decided it was a lot more fun to kill him over and over than to just hack his head off and call it quits. He's like self-replenishing _bubble-wrap_, with all the perverse delight of being allowed to perpetually destroy something."

"I never thought of him that way before," Hope says with a giggle.

Bullseye decides to just _ask_ her about her mutation. "So you're a _mutant_."

"First since M Day," she confirms, selecting a burger for herself and carefully peeling back the wrapper like a banana peel.

"And your power's empathy, right?"

She makes a funny little grimace. "Ssssort of. Dr. Richards said it seems to be some weird thing to do with sympathetic resonance and wavelengths and stuff. I can feel what people around me are feeling, and they can feel what I feel. If I try, I can _make_ them feel a certain way—but I don't do that much, because it upsets Daddy. I can do other things with resonance, too. Like deflecting bullets. Nathan used to be able to _stop_ bullets, which I think is a lot more useful than bouncing them. Theresa thinks I could probably fly, but it sounds pretty iffy, to me."

Aki presses closer again, and Bullseye can feel his heartbeat—it's fast and heavy, like he's keying up for a fight. "Oh, but you forgot to mention your miraculous gift for shoving your nose into other people's business."

Hope raises her eyebrows, but doesn't seem intimidated. "That's not a mutant power. I just got it from Nathan. Daddy says his officiousness is contagious, like most of his worst traits. Mr. B, will you please just _tell_ him? He won't believe me, and he's going to be irritable until you say it. We're all big kids here, and feelings aren't that scary."

"Tell him what?" Bullseye asks, crumpling the empty wrapper and reaching for another burger.

"That you definitely at least like him _very_ much. I understand that most grown-ups are terrified of the word 'love,' so I won't go there."

Aki goes tense. "Go _away_ before I break your pretty little nose," he hisses.

Bullseye blinks. He looks over at his lover, who sees him watching and jerks away. "It really bothers you that much?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"No," comes the knee-jerk retort. "What does? Her thinking she knows what I'm thinking? Of course it does. It's none of her business what I'm thinking, and anyway, she's _wrong_."

"Oh, _brother_," sighs Hope. "It's like Laura and Julian all over again."

For some reason—Bullseye can't quite think why—the idea of Aki doing something so _normal_ and _juvenile_ as worrying about 'like' and 'love' and the general state of their relationship is _adorable_. Mr. Big Bad Manipulator has fallen into his own trap. The sense of cosmic irony is astounding.

So he laughs a little (tries to keep it under control so Aki doesn't get the wrong idea), puts his arm around Aki's shoulders, and nuzzles his cheek. "Newsflash, Captain Douchebag—I _definitely_ at least like you _very _much. You can be a real bitch sometimes, and you have way too much fun pissing me off, but my life would suck without you. These days, I've got no real desire to go anywhere without you. It's to the point that if you don't wanna go, I just stay put like an idiot. I guess most people would call that 'love.'"

And Aki doesn't say anything. "Hmph," he snorts imperiously, as if he couldn't care less. That much response from Aki is the same as someone else blushing bright red.

"There!" Hope says happily. "That's _much_ better. You have a room in the officers' barracks, next door to Dr. Sofen—y'know, if you want to go somewhere with actual furniture and get some real sleep. Daddy will send somebody if he needs you for anything." And because his ass is numb from sitting on the metal floor for so long, Bullseye hurriedly gathers the rest of the food back into the paper sack and stands up. "_Actual furniture_. Point the way, princess."

She hops up and waves over some SHIELD flunky. "Please show Mr. B the way to berth 2251-H in the officers' barracks."

The flunky guy salutes. "Yes, ma'am." And he turns and heads for the door.

Bullseye waits until he feels Aki take his hand again before he follows.

The place is like a _maze_, and Bullseye gives up trying to remember the way back. Somebody will come get him if Deadpool really needs him for something, so he doesn't _have_ to remember the way.

It's not a bad room, all in all. The furniture is bolted in place (smart move, really). On one wall is a little table with two chairs; there's a desk and a bookcase on the other. The back wall houses the bunk (generously sized), with storage cabinets above and below.

When they're alone and the door is shut and locked (and the bag of burgers has been tossed to the table), he snaps out a hand, yanking Aki's head back by his hair until he's at the perfect angle for kissing. "Yes," he says. "It's a little pathetic and pretty fucked up, but I love you." And he puts all of that perplexing emotion into kissing Aki's breath away.

And Aki responds by pressing against him and moaning around his tongue (which may be the sexiest thing _ever_). "I hate you," he gasps, when they part for breath. "I love you. I _hate loving you_. Take your goddamn clothes off and get on the bed—you haven't fucked me since you ran out of Zyprexa."

He laughs and lets go of Aki's stupid hair to grab his ass in both hands (and it's a very nice ass). "Why is it you can never just _ask me nicely_ to fuck you into the nearest flat surface?"

"Pretty please, or I'll resort to underhanded means to get what I want?" Aki husks, and starts sucking on a nice spot at the side of Bullseye's neck.

And he laughs again, because this is really the sweetest Akihiro has ever been to him (aside from all the patient babysitting during various drug-withdrawals) and other than the weird-factor of Aki (pushy, snarly, 'I'm a manly tomcat that fights or fucks everything that moves' Aki) acting like such a sappy _chick_ about the whole situation, it's everything Bullseye never knew he wanted out of Aki. "I could get used t' you bein' all sweet and emotional."

"God, just _shutupandfuckme_," Aki growls, fumbling at the waist of Bullseye's sweats.

"Hey," he chides when the hand in his pants starts stroking quickly and roughly. "One of us is feeling his age and only comes once per romp these days. How about a little patience, Tinkerbell?"

"You're _not_," whispers Aki, suddenly gentle again, cupping his face and showering him with little kisses. "Don't say that—don't _ever_ say that. You're not 'feeling your age,' you're not getting old, _never_."

"Oh, I'm _not_?" Bullseye counters with good humor. "What's it matter to you? You'd just get a new one when I break."

Aki doesn't appreciate the joke, it seems. He makes a wounded noise and holds on tight. "No. _No_."

The soft, desperate tone makes his chest ache, so he nuzzles Aki's nose. "Okay, okay… You win, beautiful. I'll never get old, and I'll never die."

"Don't give me that patronizing bullshit," Aki sniffles, and punches him in the kidney.

"Ow, jeez… How about this, then? _I'll never leave you_. That better?"

"Promise."

"I promise I'll never leave you, Aki."

The bloodstained hand makes a fist in his hoodie and yanks him toward the bunk. "Over here. Now."

So he smirks and slips back into the flow of things, lips and tongue and teeth and wandering hands, and stumbles them over to the bunk. But _someone_ is too eager, trips him in desperate haste, and he hears a _crunch_ and a hollow _clang_, and Aki's feet skid out from under him.

"Oh, shit!" Bullseye laughs, catching his lover in time to keep him from smacking his head on anything _else_. "You okay, baby? Didn't bite your tongue or nothin', didya? Hazard of bunks. Sit down before you kill yourself."

Aki growls, ducking into the bunk properly before reaching out again and yanking Bullseye after him (and Bullseye is ready, has a hand braced on the top edge of the berth so that he can duck in time). "I love you, I _love you_, you _idiot_," Aki gasps against his mouth, squirming out of shoes and socks and five-hundred-a-pair jeans. "Stupid_beautiful_fucking_idiot_."

Bullseye's finely tuned sense of self-preservation tells him to get Aki calmed down, and the two best ways to do that are chocolate and an orgasm (or maybe the other way around). So, while strong hands dig into his hips hard enough to bruise, he hurriedly palms Aki's erection through his boxer-briefs, squeezes the head before pulling it free to stroke.

Talk about _beautiful_. Aki dances under him, perfect body and furrowed brow and gasping mouth. Sinful. And it's unfair, it really is, but Bullseye uses everything he knows about what Aki likes best to make him come fast, spurting between them, adding to the stains on Bullseye's hoodie.

"_Cheater_," Aki purrs, languid for the moment, even with his cock still hard.

"When you get carried away, you break things," Bullseye points out. "Last time, it was my cheekbone."

"It healed."

"Yeah, after a whole _day_. It didn't feel great in the meantime."

Aki smirks. "Just shut up and fuck me already."

"When I get around to it," Bullseye chuckles, and risks a kiss while he's less likely to get bitten.

"You're lucky you're _delicious_ and I'm feeling patient for a few more seconds," sighs Aki.

The veiled threat both stings and soothes, and some deeply buried part of Bullseye sneers for the millionth time at the pathetic way his entire _being_ has come to rely so much on Aki—his presence, his touch, his approval. He presses his nose to the warm pulse under Aki's ear and murmurs, "Why's that? What would you do, if you weren't feeling so 'patient'? You know all the best ways to hurt me, and now you know they've got nothing to do with sticking those claws in me."

"_No_," Akihiro whispers again, carding his hands through Bullseye's hair and kissing his jaw. The word is almost abstracted, devoid of context and meaning.

No? No _what_?

Those strangely smooth hands move again, sliding up his sides to pull his shirt and hoodie up, and he obligingly sits back to let Aki strip them off and toss them somewhere.

And _oh_, the look in those dark eyes…

Bullseye doesn't think he's ever seen eyes that color, except on Aki and his annoying father, and the look they're giving him is so achingly _something_ that he can't help but stare for a moment.

For once, Aki has no trace of smugness, no hint of triumph. In fact, he looks like he's just found out he lost some secret contest. He looks like his heart is breaking, and that makes Bullseye feel wretched with confused guilt.

"What?" he mumbles. "What's wrong? You really want me to just get on with it?"

After a moment, Aki shakes his head and gives a wan little smile. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

Bullseye feels like he's just taken a bad step and tumbled headlong down a flight of stairs. "Uh. Yeah." He smiles a little, too—lopsided and rather self-deprecating. "Yeah, me neither."

And there are tears in Aki's eyes, but he's still smiling. "Liar," he breathes, a broken little whisper that fills the space between them with _hello_ and _goodbye_ all at once.

If Bullseye weren't already entirely too in love with Aki, that sweet whisper would send him head-over-heels. But he is, so it only tickles warmly in the pit of his stomach and makes him lean down for a kiss that tastes like tears and promises and _forever_.

So, shortly after the tenth anniversary of their teaming up, Bullseye realizes he is someone's whole world, and it feels like he's finally found his purpose in life.

**.End.**


	13. Scars

moar of it. *still bashing head into wall*

**warnings:** Earth-339. slash with dom/sub undertones. mild violence. sci-fi. world-go-boom. reference to character death. language: pg-13 (for f*** and s***).

**pairing:** Daken/Lester, implied Scott/Logan/Emma polygon of some kind.

**timeline:** 2019, a few hours after the Big One.

**disclaimer:** i doesn't owns the movies, comics, or characters.

**notes:** 1) Daken started mentally comparing Lester to a butterfly in **Butterfly (Without a Care)**. 2) Hope cut through Daken's bullshit in **Nothing Personal** (part of **Nightmares**. 3) San Francisco was back in **Distil**. 4) Kate's getting bent out of shape over **Hero** (a **Nightmares Side Story**. 5) having someone "on retainer" means paying them a fee over time for their continued freelance service, usually as some form of consultant (e.g. a lawyer being used as a legal consultant).

* * *

><p><strong>Scars<strong>

Daken is watching Lester sleep when a knock sounds at the door.

He climbs out of the bunk (it must be convenient during aerial maneuvers and the like, he supposes, but it'll take some getting used to) and answers the knock without bothering to get dressed.

The SHIELD officer who's been sent to fetch Lester (she's a Sergeant, from the stripes on her shoulder) glances down before she can help herself, but manages to face him without flinching or embarrassment. "Sir, the Supreme Commander has announced a final policymaking meeting before the Commanders disperse to their respective vessels. All senior staff are to convene in the command center in an hour. The nearest mess hall is one deck up, and the officers' showers are two corridors aft. Several standard sizes of SHIELD uniform should have been stocked above the bunk; if you require different sizes, simply alert one of the attachés at the meeting, and the requisitions officer will be notified."

He regards her placidly. She might be pretty, with her hair down and some more adventurous makeup. He feels a flutter of annoyance at his own lack of interest. "Thank you. That will be all."

The door closes on her smart salute.

Above the bed, he does indeed find uniforms. They're well-crafted—a smooth and flexible material with the strength of good leather but a smell that's clearly synthetic, stitching reinforced in sensible places, subtle paneling at the knees, shoulders, and elbows. The boots are nice (also from man-made products, alas, but there's only so much that can be done on a budget meant to supply a small army), if a bit on the narrow side. He sets out the right sizes for Lester, pulls on his jeans, and sets off for the showers with his own clean clothes under his arm.

Two corridors aft.

From the barely-perceptible feeling of motion, the door faces the carrier's bow. He takes two rights and meanders toward the scents of soap and water.

Inside the door, there's a locker area with a shelf of clean towels and washcloths and a hamper for the used ones. He drops the fresh uniform on a bench, tosses his dirty clothes carelessly toward the hamper. The showers are separated into stalls (and how incongruous, for an essentially militaristic group to have such modesty, even in the luxury of a facility meant for officers…), with dispensers for soap, shampoo, and conditioner.

The hot water feels _divine_ after an afternoon of sitting with the unwashed masses (after running like hell). Dirt, blood, sweat, fear, sex, _tiredness_… He rinses it all off.

It'll be nice to get back to roughing it. He's gotten too spoiled, too complacent. There's no sense in getting so sloppy. The costumed morons in that room had all but _sneered_ at him, looked at him with eyes that said, 'oh, it's Wolverine's son again,' and, 'what exactly are you doing here?' and, 'silly little boy thinks he can play in the big leagues.'

But he has toppled giants. He has slain gods. In a one-on-one fight, he could kill most of the idiots who play at being 'senior staff.' Danvers would give him trouble, and Wilson, and daddy dearest. But he isn't _weak_ or _young_ or _foolish_, as they all seemed to think.

He is a predator, a creature of danger, and he's damn well going to go back to acting like it.

When he's washed, dried, and clothed, he shifts his feet experimentally in the too-narrow boots and decides he'll do without until he can get a wider pair (he tosses boots and socks at the hamper on his way out the door).

A SHIELD agent passing in the halls gives him directions to the nearest lift, and on the next deck up (more crowded with refugees than the command deck) he follows the mixed smells of food to the mess.

He cuts in line because he can (the girl he passes swears colorfully before he smiles at her, at which point she dissolves into adoring mumbles), takes a hot bowl of something that smells like beef stew with potatoes.

"Give me your seat," he says to a guy at the nearest table, and the thirty-something suit trips over himself to obey.

"That girl was waiting for two hours," Logan says as he takes the seat next to Daken.

"Oh?" he replies, utterly disinterested. "Then I'm sure twenty seconds more was quite a hardship. I certainly wasn't going to wait two hours."

"Being considerate won't kill you, boy."

"I didn't exactly have any shining fatherly role models," he says sweetly. "And my name is not '_boy_.'"

"Well, you don't like the name you were given, and I'm not going to call my own son 'mongrel.'"

Daken sneers between spoonfuls of stew. "_You_ didn't bother to give me a name, _Father_, so I had to take the one a pair of useless cowards gave me. Only one person on the planet is allowed to call me by that name, and it's not you."

"What's the story behind that?" Logan asks. "You never struck me as the type who could settle seriously with any one person."

"And what about _you_?" Daken asks in return. "Didn't it ever seem pointless to spend more than a day or two on someone? They're fragile things. They don't live very long, even if nothing particularly awful happens to them. Why do something as stupid as falling in love? If the more persistent foes don't kill them, they'll just die in a traffic accident, or a plane crash, or a fire… Five years, ten years, twenty if your luck is excellent, but it's all just a _blip_ to us, isn't it? How can you see them as anything more than _insects_?"

"Butterflies are insects. Sometimes, they're beautiful _because_ they're fragile," Logan says softly.

Daken manages not to drop his spoon, but it's a near thing. "Yes, they are," he replies just as softly.

"And sometimes you don't want to get attached…you try not to, you try your _damnedest_…you even push them away…but they won't give up on you."

Irritated, Daken stirs his stew and takes another bite. He didn't lie earlier; he hates having anyone know what he's thinking, and even more than that, he hates sharing these ugly, weak, painful feelings with his father, whom he still resents with every fiber of his being.

"I loved your mother very, _very_ much," Logan tells him, and only hunger keeps him from flinging his bowl at the man out of spite.

"Mm," he says tightly. "So much that you left her body to be desecrated. What an inspiring example. I suppose you expect I should thank you, since I might have died otherwise."

"No. But I guess we can both think of you as the one good thing that came of it."

Daken grips his spoon until the metal bends. "I find it insulting to be labeled 'good,' I'll have you know."

Logan folds his hands on the table. "I loved her so much that when she died, I felt like _I'd_ died. No…" He shakes his head. "…I felt like…like I'd been hurt in a way that'd never heal. Like I _wanted_ to die."

Once more, Daken feels the pain and terror that gripped him for a moment while he and Lester were making love earlier (and _yuck_, it really _was_ 'making love,' not 'fucking,' but it was perfectly right, even if it makes him feel weak and pathetic and all the things Romulus had always warned him never to become). "Past tense. So you got over it."

"No."

He does drop his spoon at that, and he hides the tremble in his hand by clenching it into a fist.

"And it felt about the same the next time a woman I loved died. And the time after that. It scars deep down, in a place nobody can see, and it never heals."

Daken sneers again and picks up his spoon. "I'm not weak like you are," he says, trying to convince himself more than anyone. Just like Wilson's girl said…'_you're_ the only one trying to fool you.'

"You're weak in _exactly_ the way I am. Maybe worse, since it's your first time. Like you said—five, ten, twenty years. He's _going to die_."

Rage and fear and grief bubble over, and he stabs Logan in the arm with the handle of his spoon. "I hope someone turns your pet boy scout and his pretty girlfriend _inside out_," he snarls, and abandons the remainder of his stew in favor of a strategic retreat.

He'd wanted to be alone, when he set out for a shower and a meal, wanted time to get those mired feelings of love and preemptive loss under control. Now he wants irrationally to be where he can hear Lester's heartbeat. Now he wants to never let Lester out of his sight again.

It's _stupid_, and he _knows_ it is—even if he never makes a mistake, even if he guards Lester for every instant and makes sure he eats and takes his meds and sees a doctor every once in a while, Lester will eventually die. Logan wasn't wrong about that.

But Daken is terrified that he'll feel the way Logan described, that something inside will break in a way that can't be fixed. It's a truly daunting thing, to be able to look at Lester and honestly think, 'I love you, and you _will_ die long before I ever do.'

He hesitates at the door to berth 2251-H, but chides himself for such a string of mind-changing.

As soon as the door opens, Lester is on him, clutching him tightly (he's wearing his sweats and hoodie, so perhaps he thought about going to look for Daken).

"_Jesus_Akiwhere_were_you?"

He realizes guiltily that it's been more than nine years since he went anywhere without telling Lester first. The last time he did it was back in San Francisco, soon after they'd killed Osborn—the final lesson in obedience.

_Stockholm syndrome._

Bitterly, he wonders if what Lester feels is really love, or just some twisted form of dependence.

Then he wonders if there's any difference.

"I woke up and you were _gone_, and I thought…" Lester laughs, and it sounds like a sob. "God, I dunno what I thought. I thought maybe the L-word was too much, that you didn't like hearing it after all. If you don't, _tell me_, I'll never say it again."

He shakes his head, puts his arms around his lover and just listens to the reassuring patter of a nervous heartbeat. "Say it as much as you want," he sighs. "Say it _more_ than that. Say it every day for the rest of _forever_."

"I love you," Lester says. "_God_, I love you. Don't ever vanish like that, I thought I was gonna _die_."

"I'm so sorry, precious. I won't, I promise. It's just you and me against the world, after all."

They stay like that for a while, warm and close, until Lester's heartbeat slows to something like normal.

"Wilson has some meeting planned soon, and you're invited," Daken says. "Would you like a shower first?"

"Yeah, think so."

He leans back enough for a brief kiss. "All right, darling." Grabbing the clothes he'd set out earlier, he leads the way to the officers' showers.

Lester looks much happier after a shower and a change of clothes, and the uniform's sleek lines are rather flattering.

"It suits you," Daken announces with an admiring grin.

"Really? I thought it kinda showed how much you've been spoiling me, these last few years…pretty sure I've packed a few pounds onto my gut."

Daken rolls his eyes. "Please," he scoffs. "Enthusiastic sex works more muscles and burns more calories than any exercise but swimming."

"You _would_ know that," Lester says with a grin and a kiss. "And I'm thinking the uniform looks better on you than it does on me."

"That's fair; you look best in nothing but a smile, after all."

Lester laughs at that. "Fuckin' flirt."

"Let's go."

"Not gonna grab some boots?" Lester gestures at Daken's bare feet.

"No," he says, and shakes his head. "The standard fit is too narrow. I'll make some little SHIELD gopher get me wides later."

"Ah, s'okay. You got cute feet, Tinkerbell."

Daken leads the way back to the war room, finding his way by tracking the backward trail of Lester's scent.

The place is just as crowded as before, this time with fewer SHIELD members and more costumed super-fools. There are nowhere near enough chairs to go around—most of them are standing. The fleet commanders all have seats. Steve Rogers has a seat by dint of being Captain America and therefore possibly the best-liked person in the entire fleet.

Laura stands from her chair when she sees them. On her face is a stiff smile, and on her scent is an odd mix of embarrassment and something like affection. "I saved you a seat," she says in a slightly puzzled tone, like even she doesn't know exactly why she did it. He's reminded of the days when she was much younger and very unfamiliar with things like politeness and social interaction.

Daken regards her with raised eyebrows.

She stops smiling. "It seemed like a better idea than leaving you with a need to threaten somebody for one."

"Thank you, Laura, it was very thoughtful of you," he says, amused by how graceless she can still be with things like that, even after more than a decade with her little school friends.

Almost as soon as he sits, Deadpool comes prancing along the surface of the table like some cartoon criminal mastermind.

"I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here today…"

"Please get to the point, Supreme Commander," Stark says. "No silly games. We've all had a very bad day."

"And yet so much better than it could've been, I think we'll all agree," Deadpool retorts. "I usually like the 'I told you so' game, but it'd be in pretty poor taste this time. We're gathered at this particular moment to finish off some policymaking. First and foremost, I'm announcing the establishment of the Fleet Defense Force—essentially a volunteer marine force to kick ass, take names, and do spy shit. Any super-duper-heroes who wanna retire in light of the fact that crime-fighting and world-saving will be pretty much a non-issue within the next year, feel free to leave the room."

Some of them look around, look at each other.

Deadpool gesticulates wildly toward the door. "Seriously. Completely guilt-free. Our primary power source is perfectly renewable, and the matter synthesizers will let us make literally any kind of supplies we want out of whatever we happen to have. This is a free ride—all you have to do is live."

"It's not free," says a pretty brunette with purple sunglasses. "Tommy's dead. _Dead_. And he's not the only one. We paid in lives. It's not free at all."

"_I_ paid in lives," Deadpool corrects sharply. "Everybody _else_ has a free ride. I'm not asking anything more from _anyone_ than what we've already got right now."

A silver-skinned redhead (one of Laura's little friends that Daken hasn't bothered to remember) stands up from her seat. "What we've got won't be enough if something goes wrong, or if someone declares war. Not unless somebody steps up. I'm stepping up. Do we sign on the dotted line, or what?"

Deadpool fishes around in a jacket pocket and holds out the glass sphere Daken remembers from a decade back. There are lights inside it now, little points of glowing color.

"No dotted line, Cessie," Deadpool says. "Just raise your hand good and high, volunteers. Eight-ball, please compile the list."

A lot of white flashes inside the thing, and then it blinks green and beeps.

"And that's it. Okie-dokie here come the rules. People can join or leave our fleet whenever they want. Technical information is not to be shared without my explicit say-so. Commanders have authority over their ships, but I have the final word, because this is _my_ outfit and I can and will forcibly eject people who actively interfere with my efforts to maximize the fleet's chances of survival. Mild violence is tolerated, but an actual fight will result in deportation. Murder will get you kicked out an airlock. For now, the Fleet Defense Force will be commanded and organized by the lovely Ms. Marvel. Thank you all, have a better one."

"You dragged my ass outta bed for this?" Lester complains.

Everyone looks, and Daken notes that not everyone seems to have been aware that they were even in the room until now.

Up on the table, Deadpool turns and cocks his head. "Uhhhh, _yeah_. 'Cause if you're here when I announce the rules, you can be expected not to break 'em unless I tell you to. And thank you for your attendance, Mr. B. For anyone who missed the announcement earlier, I've got Bullseye on retainer as a tactical consultant, and I really don't give a shit whether anybody doesn't like that, because we need somebody who can think like a crafty evil timestream fugitive."

"Or a white cat and her comically lisping servant?" Lester suggests.

"Or that, yes. Now, go about your business, kids. Class dismissed."

"Good, I'm starved. What we got to eat on this boat?"

Daken grins. "Beef stew, I believe."

**.End.**


	14. Unexpected

have yourselves some Side Story, kids! in **End of Dreaming**, Julie and Daken have a close, sibling-like bond, so i figured i could show you where that started.

**warnings:** Earth-339. sci-fi. post-apocalyptic (not to be confused with post-Apocalypse, because he doesn't show up for another few hundred years). OCs: Juliet and James are the twin children of Laura Kinney and Julian Keller. fluff. language: pg-13 (for f***).

**pairing:** none/gen (background Laura/Julian and Daken/Lester).

**timeline:** 2025-ish.

**disclaimer:** i doesn't owns the movies, comics, or characters.

**notes:** 1) when you're used to dealing with children from very far away and for very short periods of time, suddenly having one crying on you can be a real shock. 2) you can't fix stupid. 3) being used to a relationship of mutual dislike with children and suddenly having one look at you like you are made of gold-plated awesome is also a real shock (but a pleasant one). 4) "jury-rigging" is an old sailing term that has to do with making emergency repairs. if you MacGyver something into working, you've jury-rigged it.

* * *

><p><strong>Unexpected<strong>

Daken is learning how to do field-repairs on the engines the first time it happens.

Chief Batista is outlining the major breakers in the central access panel when something quite small barrels into the room and attaches itself to Daken's leg.

His nose tells him _upset_ and _family_ exactly two seconds before his brain determines that the small thing is a crying child. After that, he wastes another three seconds wrestling with an automatic urge to pick the thing up.

Of course, he was aware, in some vague way, that Laura has children. Wilson and his little friends talk quite a lot about them, and Daken has, on occasion, seen them from a distance of fifteen feet or so for about ten seconds at a time. This is his first time in close proximity with one of the twins, and he usually _detests_ children.

Must be another strange symptom of _getting old_.

"Uh," Batista says, hesitating.

The child (it's the girl…Juliet, wasn't it?) just keeps unself-consciously clinging and crying, and Daken comes to the awkward realization that it's because _he smells like her mother_. Her nose is probably saying 'family,' just the way his is, and as much as he wants to shake her off in disgust, he remembers how it hurt to be very young and feel unwelcome.

So he forces himself to carefully peel her off his shin so that he can crouch next to her. "Julie? What's wrong?"

"James said girls are dumb!" she cries, little hands wiping at angry tears. "I said we're not, and he said we are, and he wouldn't give me my turn at the gun, and how am I supposed to get better at shooting the rail cannon if he won't let me have my turn?"

Daken suspects he is entirely the wrong audience for this tearful run-on appeal. "Girls _are_ dumb," he says. "_People_ are dumb." "Well, even if girls are dumb, _I'm_ not dumb, I'm smarter than he is, who cares if he's a better shot, I can always practice and get better but he can't practice and get smarter!"

"An excellent point. But if you're really that upset, you should have punched him."

Juliet immediately stops crying and looks at him with wide green eyes. "…really?"

He shrugs. "It's what I would've done."

She beams at him.

Daken comes to a second awkward realization: he has never had a small child look at him with such admiration. It's…disconcertingly intoxicating.

"Are you learning about the engines?" she asks. "We learned how to fix them last week. Failure of a single loft engine increases the load of the neighboring engines by thirty-five percent, which they can handle for a maximum of five hours under low-stress flight conditions or forty minutes under intense evasive action."

Chief Batista looks quite shocked. "Yeah…yeah, that's right."

Juliet turns her big green eyes on Daken and assumes an ingratiating little pleading expression. "Can I stay with you?"

He doesn't like how horrifying the idea of turning her down is. "Of course you can, dear," he says. Abandoning all pretense, he scoops her up and settles her on his hip. "Please continue, Chief."

When Lester returns from taking his pills, he has the good grace not to laugh outright. "Picking up strays, Aki?" he teases.

"Ha-fucking-ha, it is to laugh," Daken says.

"Is it house-trained?"

"I'm a _she_, not an _it_," Juliet tells Lester with a disapproving little frown that she _certainly_ learned from her mother. "And I've probably been potty-trained longer than _you_ have, you knuckle-dragging troglodyte. So fuck you."

Daken grins. Yes, she's definitely Laura's.

Arching an eyebrow, Lester snorts, "They equipping kindergarteners with unabridged dictionaries nowadays?"

"My _name_ is Juliet, and I am _seven_," she tells him primly. "And at least _I_ can _read_ a dictionary, you gibbering baboon."

"Now, Julie," Daken tuts. "That's not very nice; Lester can read perfectly well."

"Oh, how nice for him—to be an ape that can read."

Lester may be approximately as unamused as Daken is amused. "So the brat's name is Juliet. That's nice. Whose is she, and how soon can you give her back?"

"Can't you see the family resemblance, precious?" Daken casts a thoughtful look at Juliet. "She's one of Laura's, of course. Her brother's being an ass, so I told her she could stay with us for a bit. Isn't she just the most darling thing?"

The look of thunderous displeasure on Lester's face suggests he disagrees with that assessment.

"Where were we?" Daken asks Batista.

"Uh…" Batists says.

Juliet points. "Jury-rigging the control board if the panel shorts. You need a screwdriver to get in, though, and you need to pull the power cable before you touch anything, because the capacitors zap _big-time_. I had a burn mark on my finger for almost two seconds."

"Who knew intelligent children could be such pleasant company?" muses Daken.

"Oh, yeah, she's a real joy," Lester says with extreme insincerity.

**.End.**


	15. Obstacles

apropos of nothing in particular.

**warnings:** Earth-339. sci-fi. post-apocalyptic (not to be confused with post-Apocalypse, because he doesn't show up for another few hundred years). OCs: Juliet and James are the twin children of Laura Kinney and Julian Keller. fluffy domesticity, blech. language: pg-13 (for f***, s*** and g**damn).

**pairing:** none/gen (background Laura/Julian and Daken/Lester).

**timeline:** 2033-ish.

**disclaimer:** i doesn't owns the movies, comics, or characters.

**notes:** 1) oh, Bullseye, aren't you so glad you're part of the Fleet Defense Force? you get to sit there and listen to Cap and Cyclops talk about how nice we should all be to each other. /sarcasm 2) Stark = Tony (Iron Man), Rogers = Steve (Captain America), Cage = Luke. Summers = Scott (Cyclops), Frost = Emma (White Queen). 3) "the green-eyed monster" is a euphemism for jealousy. coincidentally, Juliet has green eyes. 4) James often has ideas like the duct tape plasma pistol. fortunately, he only takes a few minutes to recover from the outcome of each idea. 5) if you couldn't tell, Juliet doesn't like Scott. 6) Lang = Cassie (Stature). 7) back in **Tactical Advantage** (part of **Nightmares**) it was revealed that Schmooples talked China and North Korea into nuking the east coast of the US. they teamed up with Russia and some other socialist countries to form the Socialist Air Defense Fleet. 8) FS = Federated Skyfleet, made up of the US and some of its allies; took its orders from Schmooples. 9) Danvers = Carol (Ms. Marvel). the Bradleys = Kate (Hawkeye) & Eli (Patriot), who got hitched around 2026. Temple = Inez (Outlaw). Rand = Danny (Iron Fist). Proudstar = James (Warpath). 10) back in **Promises** (part of **Dreams of the Waking Man**, Domino told Wade she wanted a picture of Scott's face if he ever heard Wade call him "Daddykins." 11) Nate "walking off to his death" occurred in **(Holding on to) What I Haven't Got**, the last chapter of **Nightmares**. 12) "Frank" here is Franklin Richards. smart, responsible, explosion-loving. best kind of mad scientist, if you ask me.

* * *

><p><strong>Obstacles<strong>

Bullseye is getting sick of certain people's fucking bullshit-ass married-couple spats.

Anytime they make the mistake of letting the carrier commanders sit in on Fleet Defense Force meetings, it's a goddamn cartoon catfight—a screeching whirlwind of fur and fangs.

Stark and Rogers are the worst. They can't agree on jack-shit. Hell, they probably fight over positions in bed and whose turn it is to top. (If Cage is around, he manages to serve as a mediator until it turns into a three-way shouting match.)

Summers and Frost are a close second, because Frost tends to agree with Stark, and Summers is such a fucking goodie-goodie he 'n Rogers could've been pressed outta the same damn goodie-goodie mold. (The closest thing they have to a mediator is Summers' time-traveling daughter, who has a tendency to give up in disgust.)

Today's tactics meeting includes none of the commanders, but is nevertheless especially obnoxious for Bullseye because of the studious presence of a certain little green-eyed monster.

No, not that one. Fuck you.

Juliet is sitting on the other side of Akihiro, reading some datapad in one hand and doodling aimlessly with the other.

In theory, Juliet's not so bad. She's _incredibly_ smart, and she could probably claw somebody in half if she really needed to. She's got a bloody sense of humor and the typical Wolverine take-no-bullshit attitude.

In practice, however, Bullseye finds she gets on his nerves. They didn't have a great first meeting, and they've been quietly feuding ever since (mostly because Aki seems to think she's the cutest thing in the world).

Well, in all fairness, this is probably about how Aki felt when Bullseye was all buddy-buddy with Hope before she left…but any little girl who gigglingly shares anecdotes about 'that time we were mugged and Inez kicked the guy so hard he curled up like a spider' is all right in his book.

"—and then just keep to ourselves, and they'll leave us alone," Summers is saying, to a general mumble of approval.

"That is the stupidest thing I've heard all week," Juliet says right before Bullseye can. "It would be all year, but nine days ago my brother told me he was constructing a plasma pistol out of duct tape."

There's ringing silence, and the creaking sound of people turning in their chairs.

"Nice of you to join the discussion," grunts Summers. "But I hardly think—"

"Oh, _I know_," she snorts without even bothering to look up. "That's probably why your ideas are so fucking moronic."

Okay, she's gaining points in Bullseye's book.

"Laura, would you—"

"No," Laura interrupts. "I wouldn't. Let's hear what she has to say."

"She's just a child, she can't possibly—"

Bullseye snorts. He doesn't consider fifteen to still be in the realm of childhood.

"Oh, _fuck that_!" Lang says, starting up out of her chair. "It was a bunch of _kids_ who saved the day when the Avengers were missing in action. Being young doesn't make you stupid and useless. Go ahead, Julie."

After a brief pause to finish whatever she's been reading, Juliet puts down her datapad and looks straight at Summers. "You don't honestly think Schmooples has given up on Eight-ball, do you? Yeah, you blew up her fleet. What does she care? Just means she's gotta get a new one. And who do you think she went to? The Socialists. Duh. That's what the activity on the Pacific rim is—she's overhauling their fleet, refitting it with FS guns. She's probably making them go low-tech, so that the computer virus thing will never be an issue again. So the idea of sitting around and hoping for the best is completely idiotic. We need to either get the UN on our side or start harassing shipyards."

Cue the yelling and whining.

Bullseye leans back in his chair and sips his Amp (the matter synths are pretty good at the grape one) and waits for it to quiet back down. Suddenly, Wilson's sitting in the next chair over, unimpressed and unconcerned.

"So," Wilson drawls. "Is this a tactical meeting or a caucus race?"

"Fuck if I know," Bullseye replies.

"Who's winning?"

"By volume, it's probably the Ostrich Party. By angry claws, it's the Wolverine Party."

"Ah, they cheat, they've got a whole family with six votes each. Who you rootin' for?"

Bullseye slants a look at Aki, who got himself a pair of earplugs just for occasions like this and has put them in.

"Bedroom politics aside," Wilson says with a wave of his hand. "What d'you think of Juliet's assessment?"

"On the money," Bullseye grudgingly admits. "If it was me, I'da gone slinking my ass back to the Chinese and Koreans, waved some fancy tech at them as bribery. Build up the resources while the fucking hippies sit around and insist it's gonna happen to someone else. Summers has a fine record of sticking his fucking head in the sand, after all, and Rogers is dumb enough to give people the benefit of the doubt. Wouldn't be surprised if that crazy cat was trying to get her fuzzy claws into the UN, too."

Wilson nods. "That's good work, Mr. B." Then he gets up and stands on the table and draws a gun (just a little one, but when somebody like Wilson draws a weapon, people pay attention). "If I could interrupt for just a moment?"

Silence.

"Thanks. Show of hands—those in favor of being witty and proactive in the face of our malicious feline adversary?"

Bullseye, Aki, Juliet, Laura. Karla and Danvers. Lang and both Bradleys. Taskmaster, Temple, Rand. Logan, Domino, Proudstar.

Wilson draws a vague ring with his free hand. "Right, so the _smart people_ have apparently spoken. We'll be doing what they want, I think."

"That's not even a majority, I hardly see how—" Summers complains.

"Blah-blah-blah-blah! Do me a really big favor, Daddykins, and just fucking _zip it_."

The look of righteous indignation on Summers' face is priceless (down the table, Domino starts laughing).

"We have the benefit of a very gifted consultant on the inner plottings of the fairly evil mind, and our consultant is saying the cat's off to play with the SADF. This seems to support the assessment given by the chipmunk."

"Not a chipmunk," Juliet says, already back to her reading and doodling.

Wilson ignores her (he's good at ignoring the world outside his pixie-crack brain). "The edge that selfish people have, tactically, is that they don't wanna get their asses kicked. I see one, two, three—okay, a whole bunch of selfish people who think that smiling and hoping for the best is a great way to get their asses kicked. Now, since I, being Supreme Commander, don't want _any_ of our asses to get kicked, I think I'll follow their fairly unerring sense of self-preservation." He waves his gun around. "So, this has been just _super_-productive. Meeting adjourned."

"But—" Rogers tries, looking very confused and put-out.

"Yes, yours is nice, I like mine better," Wilson retorts. "Go on, kids, run along back to your respective ships. It's time for lunch, and Eight-ball doesn't like it when I skip meals, because it makes me grumpy."

It takes almost two minutes, but the sheep file their way out. When it's just Bullseye, Aki, Juliet, and Laura, Aki jerks his head toward the door and Laura nods and leaves.

"You're upset," he says.

Over Aki's shoulder, Bullseye can see Juliet shrug as she puts down her datapad to hold the paper she's doodling on.

"Julie," Aki sighs, and Bullseye watches in wonder as that weird almost-paternal streak makes itself known.

"He thinks I'm stupid," she mutters. "He thinks I'm stupid because I'm young. He said so, right in front of everyone."

"Are you?"

She slams her pencil down. "I'm not!" She slams her fist down on the pencil, snapping it, making the fragments jump as she hits the table twice more. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm _not_! Even if I were, it wouldn't be because of my age!"

"So he's wrong," Aki calmly reasons. "You know he's wrong, I know he's wrong. Is there any use in _his_ knowing he's wrong? Or is it just as useful for him to believe he's right?"

"He has such old and cowardly and fucking imbecilic ideas, but people listen because he's _in charge_."

Slowly, Aki sits back in his chair and folds his hands together. "Let's consider the situation logically. He's an obstacle. We can't kill him. We gain very little by deposing him. He does have a very useful streak of suicidal heroism that may eventually get rid of him. But is there any need to remove him at all?"

Bullseye snorts. "Why dig up a tree when you can walk around? Most of the commanders think he's a load of hot air anyway."

Juliet hits the table again and bursts to her feet. "I don't want them to listen because of their petty politics and who my mother is. I want them to listen because my ideas are better than his."

"What does it matter _why_ they listen, as long as they _do_?" Akihiro counters.

She scowls. "Because if they're only listening because they _like_ me, that means their minds could be changed. If they listen because the idea is good, then they'll still think it's good if the politics shift, if my mother dies, if someone else takes power and denounces me in some way."

Aki grins. "Good girl. That's right. But the only way for them to see that your ideas are good for their own sake is to keep throwing ideas at them. I've told you time and again, Julie: people are _stupid_."

She just looks at him for a while. "I don't like being patronized," she says. "I want very badly to punch you right now."

"Lester wouldn't like that."

"Of course not. He'd be jealous. I could punch him, too, if it'd make him feel better."

Bullseye laughs. "Thrill me, kid."

She gives Aki a right hook that makes him smile. She gives Bullseye her left (her strong hand).

He feels his cheek start to bruise, but her knuckles are bloody. He hits her back. "You hit like a girl," he tells her.

She spits a tooth at him (it bounces off his scar). "I _am_ a girl. What's _your_ excuse?" After a brief pause, Juliet shakes out her hand. "And nobody ever told me you had a metal skull."

"Metal-plated," he corrects. "A lot of me's metal-plated. Just like your grandpa."

There's a moment of frowning time-lag, and she shakes her head. "If you mean Logan, he's biologically more similar to an uncle than a grandfather." She turns to face Aki. "So, until they understand that my ideas are good, I'm just supposed to sit there and take Scott's ageist bullshit?"

Aki pokes her nose and winks. "Patience, my sweet. A year, two, three, ten…what does that matter to us, hm? If you have to, wait for the insufferable bastard to die off."

"And take half the fleet with him because of his backward tactics?" Juliet grumbles.

"I hardly think the Supreme Commander would let it get to that point."

Bullseye waves the idea away. "Nah. He'd kill the guy first. He let Cable walk off to his death for the sake of the fleet, I think he'd jump on the opportunity to do the same to Summers."

"Mm," agrees Akihiro. "And Lang and the Bradleys may actually lynch him the next time he utters the phrase 'she's just a child.'"

"Hmph," says Juliet.

Bullseye senses an impending sulk (which will result in a grumpy Aki), so he heads it off by changing the subject. "So, Jim's making a duct tape plasma pistol?"

"It's Frank's fault for not discouraging him," she mutters, and rolls her eyes.

He grins. Frank is the coolest mad scientist Bullseye has ever met—he likes to make things that blow stuff up, and Bullseye likes to _use_ things that blow stuff up. "Heh. If I know Frank, he's waiting for the inevitable explosion. Should be pretty funny."

"…okay, yes, it'll probably be hysterical. Provided there are no squishy bystanders around at the time."

**.End.**


	16. MacOppenheimer

a quickie, because MerianMoriarty complained that Jim felt like a filler character. well, here you go, a peek into the universal importance of James Logan Keller.

**warnings:** Earth-339. sci-fi. post-apocalyptic (not to be confused with post-Apocalypse, because he doesn't show up for another few hundred years). OCs: Juliet and James are the twin children of Laura Kinney and Julian Keller. science and silliness. language: pg-13 (for one use of f*** by Juliet).

**pairing:** none/gen (background Laura/Julian and Daken/Lester).

**timeline:** 2033-ish, a month or so after **Obstacles**.

**disclaimer:** i doesn't owns the movies, comics, or characters.

**notes:** 1) it's never really clear how much of the various side projects really 'count' as far as true continuity, but i loved Sinister Spider-Man way too much to not have it be part of Earth-339. so, for those who missed it, the poodle (or "yap-dog," as Bullseye called it in SSM) was a gag in Sinister Spider-Man #4, where Bullseye threw a poodle into Mac's left eye while he was busy trying to soak up some admiration (posing as Spider-Man). 2) Graves is a random alias. the SHIELD guys probably made him fill out paperwork when he joined the Fleet Defense Force. to most of the fleet, he's Lieutenant Graves (call him Lester and he may find a way to throw you overboard); to his buddies, he's Mr. B. 3) 'good/close enough for rock 'n roll' is an expression that basically just means 'good/close enough.' 4) several kinds of predator have incredibly sharp vision in poor lighting or across distances, but cannot see as many colors as humans can. this is because the cone neurons in their retinas are sensitive to a smaller variety of wavelengths. cats, for instance, can't see red. 5) MacGyver was an 80s show about a secret agent who could solve any problem with his swiss army knife and stuff lying around. he was the king of improvisational science. 6) Oppenheimer here is J Robert Oppenheimer, the theoretical physicist who played a key role in weaponizing atomic reactions. 7) Elmer's is an American glue brand. typically, the phrase "Elmer's Glue" refers to white school paste. 8) thermite is a compound that undergoes a thermite reaction when heated. the most common thermite compound is iron oxide (rust) and aluminum. thermite reactions can reach temperatures in excess of four thousand degrees fahrenheit and emit UV radiation, but can be ignited by a simple flint spark (as long as the compound is ground finely enough). 9) tungsten is extremely dense and forms very heavy alloys, so it's often used for armor piercing ammo. 10) Mach 9 (nine times the speed of sound) is around three kilometers per second at sea level. typical muzzle velocity for a projectile weapon is closer to Mach 5 (about 1700 meters per second at sea level). a plasma reaction such as you might see in a rail cannon is capable of propelling an object up to TWENTY kilometers per second, so this is probably a pretty small reaction. 11) in fact, the hole punched in flesh by a plasma-propelled 2mm tungsten projectile at hypersonic speeds would probably be disproportionately large because of the superheated envelope of air around the projectile. it really would be cauterized, though. 12) TA here is, of course, Transparent Aluminum. 13) GSG = gravimetric shield generator. 14) "to have the con" on a ship means "to be charged with guiding" it. 15) "Sergeant Summers" is Rachel. 16) oh, and if you didn't know, Frank Richards is a telepath. 17) actually, only a **male** elephant has two prehensile organs; a female elephant only has a prehensile nose.

* * *

><p><strong>MacOppenheimer<strong>

Bullseye likes weapons of any kind, but the unorthodox ones always have an extra little kick of satisfaction. The little poodle will go down in history (or would, if anybody kept track of that kinda thing). Quite possibly, nothing will ever top nailing Mac in the eye with a dog…but if anything will, it'll probably be something Frank comes up with.

Frank Richards is the only nerd Bullseye has ever liked, and it's purely because he makes gizmos and then says, "Ah, Lieutenant Graves! See what you can do with this, will you? I'm ninety percent sure of what'll happen."

So it is with great optimism that Bullseye steps into Frank's lab about a month after Wilson declared that they were going to start attacking socialist shipyards.

"Punctual, as always, Lieutenant Graves," Frank says, wresting something from the hands of Laura's dippy son.

"I wasn't done!" James complains.

"Good enough—" Frank pauses to sand an edge and blow away the chaff. "—for rock 'n roll."

"Don't blame me if this one blows up, then," snorts James.

"I thought that was our fall-back," says his sister, and Bullseye makes a mental note that she can apparently fit into improbable spaces like the shelves of an armory (she's tucked away near the ceiling, reading). "Something blows up, it was probably James' fault?"

"Didn't seeya there, short-stuff," Bullseye drawls.

"That's probably because primates have relatively poor vision, compared to true predators."

"Does that mean you guys are color-blind? Because that would seriously explain a lot of Aki's wardrobe."

Frank sidles between them and interrupts. "Lovely, but let's please focus on the weapon of medium-scale destruction. And I think the fact that Lieutenant Daken can tell the difference between 'coral' and 'salmon' would put a minor puncture in the color-blindness theory."

Bullseye looks at the vaguely gun-shaped thing Frank offers him. "Medium-scale destruction is okay. My third-favorite kind."

"After mass and manual, yes, I know. Now, this clever little thing—"

"You're welcome," James says loudly.

"—is a plasma caster, not to be confused with a plasma _pistol_ or plasma _rifle_, because those fire pulses of low-energy photonic plasma. Go ahead and handle it a bit, get a feel for the heft and all that…"

Bullseye carefully takes the caster in both hands and slowly turns it to pick out all the major landmarks: sighting implements, safety, fire control settings.

"By contrast, the plasma caster uses plasmic excitation expansion to propel a small projectile, and as a result of the projectile's close contact with the plasmic reaction, it would of course be superheated."

"Superheated projectiles, I like the sound of that."

James scratches his head. "Wow, really? Because, I mean, it basically sounds like thunder. It's one of the loudest things I've ever heard."

"We talked about the 'brain switch' and the 'mouth switch,' James," Juliet calls from her shelf. "Before you can hit the mouth switch, you have to hit the brain switch."

"Shut up, my brain switch works fine! The caster was my idea!"

Bullseye immediately feels less sure about holding the thing. "His idea? Like the—was it a plasma pistol? Outta duct tape?"

"That worked!" James growls.

Skeptically, Bullseye looks to Frank with raised eyebrows.

"It did," Frank assures him. "For a given value of 'worked.' It could only be fired once, unfortunately, but it was accurate, the operator regrew his hand in under three seconds, and we learned a great deal about minimum shielding."

"Why do you encourage him so much?" grumbles Juliet.

Frank looks irritated for the first time that Bullseye can ever remember. He puts his hands on his hips and turns to her with a stern look. "Because someone should, and you won't. His ideas are quite novel, and he drives them forward with a fearlessness born of the willingness to test everything himself, rather like my father does. Perhaps the execution lacks a certain amount of foresight, but that can be remedied by collaboration. Some of the greatest innovations of the last fifty years came from bold scientific experimentation. Your brother is not _stupid_. He's like—like the bastard son of MacGyver and Oppenheimer."

"Their _stupid_ bastard son," Juliet snorts. "Commander Stark would be their _smart_ bastard son."

"Lieutenant, you understand what I mean, don't you?" Frank appeals. "He has the blueprints of cathedrals in his brain, but he tries to build them with popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue."

Bullseye considers that. "Huh. What else was his idea?"

"The shoulder-mount recoilless gelatin cannon."

"The Goo Gun?"

Frank nods.

Bullseye is floored. He _loves_ the Goo Gun. He especially loves being allowed to load the Goo Gun with thermite capsules and burn holes through buildings. He walks over to James and pats the kid on the head. "You are now even _more_ my favorite twin."

"Fuck you!" Juliet says, and throws something at him (her aim isn't great, though, so it's easy to dodge).

"And most of the RGC's ammo types," Frank adds as an afterthought. "Immobilization gel, shock gel, cryogenic gel, thermite gel…"

For several seconds, Bullseye just turns the caster in his hands again, trying to imagine how it works, what it'll be like to fire, how it reloads, how it breaks down for cleaning. "Speaking of ammo…"

Frank taps a little button on the side of the caster. "That ejects the ammo rod, if you need to. Jim didn't think it'd need an eject button, but I brought up the issue of jamming."

"A jam would probably result in catastrophic backfire," says James. "So if you managed to jam it, you'd probably be missing a hand."

Frank rolls his eyes. "There's always a use to being able to unload a weapon, Jim."

When Bullseye hits the button, a thin rod (more like a blunted needle, really) protrudes from the bottom of the caster's grip and slides out easily. The rod is a good length, too—if the gun jams and he doesn't lose his hand, he could definitely kill somebody with the ammo rod.

"That one's tungsten," Frank tells him. "The caster shears off a sliver from the end, then sparks a tightly contained plasma reaction, which in turn accelerates the metallic disc to something close to Mach nine in the space of twelve milliseconds. It'll punch a clean, cauterized hole in flesh and keep going. It goes fast enough, in fact, to dig its way through two feet of heavy-duty steel. Shouldn't have to worry much about the recoil, since we've built in some blowback redirection. Your main concern should be the weapon's accuracy."

"What'm I shooting at?"

"Me," says James. "And one of Stark's ablative plates, and a steel plate, and a TA plate. I'll have a GSG on me, so we can see whether it travels fast enough and with enough force to punch through our shields."

Bullseye nods. "Always good to know if your own guns can kill you. When do we start?"

"Now-ish," replies Frank. "Val's got con, the plates are already in place on a nearby mountain, Sergeant Summers has volunteered to fly Jim out. We just need some ear protection and our own GSGs for the radiation."

"And the gorilla's leash-holder," Juliet adds.

"Being a pet's underrated," Bullseye retorts loftily. "I get to do pretty much whatever I want, and I don't even have to clean up my own messes."

Frank rubs the bridge of his nose in that special way that means he's just seen way more than he wanted.

"Sorry, kid."

"Oh, it's not your fault," Frank assures him. "Besides, life would be very awkward for me if I told everyone to only think bland, innocent things in my presence. 'Don't think of elephants,' and all that."

"What's an elephant?" James asks.

The door hisses open and shut.

"An elephant," Akihiro explains, "is—rather, _was_—a large land-dwelling quadrupedal mammal with two interesting prehensile organs."

Frank grimaces. "Aaaand that's plenty to go on with," he says hurriedly. "Jim, give us a call when you've landed at the target site."

**.End.**


End file.
